Never Such Innocence Again
by Chickwriter
Summary: June 1918.  "All alone, with plenty of money, and a house in Eaton Square?  I can't imagine anything better."  It came too soon for her, and now Lady Mary Carlisle feels nothing.  Definitely AU and positively M/M.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So this is AU (I think, since I'm one of those Yanks who can't see anything yet), and it's the result of ten days in a hospital room hearing about worst-case scenarios (everything's better). I decided to start at the worst-case scenario for M/M and see what happened. It's not cheerful to start, I warn you. It gets happier, I swear. Please let me know what you think._

* * *

><p>It had come too soon, and she half-heartedly wished she had not said what she had said at breakfast so many years ago, as she looked around her house, where she had plenty of money, and she was all alone.<p>

She could now imagine so many things that would be better.

It had been only six months of marriage, six months until he had kissed her goodbye that cold January morning in 1918 and left for France to visit his top correspondents in the field. The telegram said only that Sir Richard Carlisle was shot and killed in an ambush, which she refused to believe was even possible until one of the correspondents he'd gone to see wrote the story of how a rear line believed safe had been attacked by German raiders. Journalists, photographers, doctors and two businessmen visiting the troops had died, Sir Richard the most famous among them. She still could not absorb it until the afternoon they brought his body back from France, and she looked at him, flinching at the unsuccessful attempt to mask the bullet wound in his neck that had taken his life.

Mary had not thought she would cry for him. After all, she did not love him, even after six months of marriage, of being his trophy paraded about at parties and events, her photograph splashed across his newspapers and those of rivals. Yet she found herself sobbing as she looked at him. She had, after all, enjoyed him, and begun to feel a curious affection for him. He had not just valued her for her beauty and charm, but also seemed to value her mind, talking freely about his businesses and listening to her opinions. She would miss the pleasure of shared stories and jokes, and the pleasure of their bed. She would not deny enjoying that, even though it was not love, and it saddened her to lose it. It made her even sadder to realize that there would be no child, something for which he had hoped far more than she, and now that he was dead, she wished she could have at least given him that.

She stroked his cold hand, kissed his cold forehead and smoothed back the graying strands of hair, and she finally felt what she wanted to feel, which was nothing.

* * *

><p>Six months passed, and the day she woke up and had officially been a widow longer than she had been a wife, she still felt nothing, and she wanted it that way as she prepared to catch a northern-bound train for Downton. Lavinia had unexpectedly asked for her, and Mary's father had followed up with a request of his own, and Mary could think of no reason why she couldn't visit. The newspapers and businesses could run without her daily input, even though she found her membership on the boards quite satisfying, and it had been months since she'd seen home. The fact that Lavinia would likely give birth to Matthew's child while she was there did not affect her at all. She had thought the trip might bother Smith... Anna... for whom memories of Downton were equally, if not more miserable, but Anna had waved it off with a smile. "They're only memories," she said softly. "And I can see my family."<p>

Only behind the closed door of Mary's room, when Smith became Anna again, did the nothing become something. Only Anna and Mary knew the damage done to each other's hearts, only Anna and Mary understood why some mornings their eyes would be red, and only Anna and Mary knew why any visit to Downton required a steeling of their souls.

She sat in the first class compartment with Mary, the warm prettiness that once set her apart now a cold beauty, a woman who was as impeccably dressed as her mistress. Mary glanced at the stylish suit and new shoes, as well as the rather difficult novel in her maid's hands and noted for what seemed like the thousandth time that although Smith had not been trained in Paris, she was by far the best ladies' maid in London, and she was fiercely proud of her.

* * *

><p>Her father met the train, an unusual occurrence, and asked if she minded sending Smith ahead in the car with the luggage so they could talk. Mary agreed with some trepidation. He looked worn out, and more worryingly, actually scared, something Mary had never seen before. They set out through the village, Robert making small talk about the various families and the businesses, until they were well out of the town and on the long, pretty road to Downton. He let out a great heaving sigh and stopped.<p>

"I am..." he began. "I am mortified to ask this, but I have to."

And she stood in shock as her father, the Earl of Grantham, who had not fought to allow her to inherit the estate, asked her for money, actually asked her to help pay the taxes on the estate.

"Mary, I wouldn't ask, but they've increased the rates. I'd have to sell the London house, or the Dower.."

"I know," she said. "You don't have to tell me about the rates. It's all over the papers." My papers, she added silently, as she nodded her head in agreement. "Don't worry, Papa. I'll take care of it."

Like her father, she would rather die than see anything happen to the estate. Deep down, however, she wished he'd known that about her before he chose not to break the entail in her favor.

* * *

><p>Mary dressed for dinner in her old room, the memories washing over her. She'd just sent back a short reply to Lavinia's written request to speak after dinner, wondering aloud at why Mrs. Crawley hadn't just come to see her.<p>

"She's not well," Anna told her. "Ella says she only comes down for dinner and not every night."

Anna had been below stairs for a few hours, but seemed no worse the wear, although Mary was keeping a close eye on her. Glimmers of feeling would emerge where Anna was concerned, and she worried about her. "I could pretend I wanted a tray up here for later," she whispered to Anna as the maid's delicate fingers put the last curl in place. "So you wouldn't have to go downstairs."

Anna smiled and left her hand on Mary's shoulder for a moment. "I'm fine. But thank you. O'Brien would see through that in a second."

* * *

><p>The telegram came at dinner, and was brought in by Carson, addressed to Lavinia, who opened it and simply slid out of her chair. Mary caught her just before she struck the floor, and as her father carried Lavinia from the room, Mary read the telegram.<p>

_Major Matthew Crawley, missing, presumed killed. _

A memory of Richard flashed in her mind.

"_They should just take the 'presumed' out of it. It would be kinder," he said softly, after she'd rattled off the names on that list from Ripon with a quiver in her voice. When pressed, he explained. "It just means they can't find the pieces." _

_And when she realized what he meant by pieces, she had cried._

So Matthew was dead. And still she felt nothing.

* * *

><p>Lavinia looked terrible, her face paler than the sheet, her eyes swollen with crying. The pregnancy had already taken a great deal out of her, and she looked weak and sick as Mary peered around the door. "May I?" Mary whispered.<p>

Lavinia nodded, her small hand reaching for Mary's as Mary settled on the edge of the bed. "He's dead," Lavinia whispered. "I know it. There's no reason to tell me otherwise. You feel it too, don't you?"

"I feel nothing, Lavinia." The admission, and the fact she'd said it to Lavinia, shocked her. She had never said it to anyone.

"Nothing? You mean you don't think... "

Mary looked at her. "I haven't felt anything for six months. Longer, I think. It's not numbness, or sadness. It's just.. empty."

"I would like that." She leaned back and breathed, trying not to cry. "Can you teach me how?"

Mary shook her head. "I wish I could." Her hand squeezed Lavinia's.

Lavinia closed her eyes. "Everyone else tells me to hope. I love you for not telling me to hope."

"If I had a heart, I would love you for not expecting me to lie."

And in spite of herself, Lavinia began to laugh, which suddenly turned into the worst wracking sobs Mary had ever heard. She found herself gathering Lavinia into her arms, making nonsense shushing sounds, rocking the younger woman back and forth. She decided distraction would help. "Why did you want to see me?"

Lavinia's arms tightened around Mary's neck. "I.. If anything happens to me, will you take care of the baby?"

"Of course." It was automatic, and Lavinia knew it. She pushed back and stared at Mary.

"Mary, I mean it. I know..." She swallowed back a sob and tried again. "Matthew told me he asked you to take care of me and Isobel. I asked him," she said swiftly as she saw Mary's face change. "I said you were being awfully protective of me last year and he finally admitted that he'd asked you. I said that wasn't fair to you, but he said he couldn't and wouldn't trust anyone else with the people he loved."

This of all things should have resulted in some emotion, but all Mary could do was squeeze Lavinia's shoulders. "I promise. What names have you chosen?"

Lavinia smiled. "Matthew Edward."

"What if it's a girl?"

"Matthew likes Elizabeth."

"Just Elizabeth?"

Lavinia's eyes met Mary's. "I wanted Elizabeth Mary. He suggested Elizabeth Andromeda. I said no."

Again, she should have felt something, and again it was only the emptiness. She laughed for Lavinia's sake. Lavinia did not laugh. She stroked her belly protectively.

"It has to be a boy." Her face fell again. "It has to now, doesn't it?"

* * *

><p>It began in the middle of that very night, and Mary, who had not slept well in months, was awake when she first heard Lavinia cry out. She sat in her chair, the curtains open, and watched the sky turn from black to deepest blue to pink as the cries grew closer together. Anna came up early to dress her, and she was nearly ready when Isobel came into her room and told her Lavinia was asking for her.<p>

Mary had never seen blood like that, never wanted to see something like that again, and replaying it in her mind it was only a blur, of Lavinia's grey face, of her short whisper, begging Mary to look after the baby, and her own voice, clear and cold, reaffirming the promise she now knew she would have to keep, before being pushed out, knowing that last little cry from Lavinia had burned itself in her brain and she would never forget it, and that she would never see Lavinia alive again.

* * *

><p>The house had been quiet, too quiet, for too long when Isobel came in, white-faced and red-eyed and simply sat down. Mary poured her a brandy and handed it to her as her shoulders slumped. "Drink it," she whispered, and left her hand on Isobel's arm, crouching in front of her. "The baby?"<p>

"A girl," Isobel said. "She's fine."

"Did Lavinia see her?"

Isobel shook her head and covered her eyes, the effort of trying not to cry too much for her.

"A girl," her father said, sadly, and Mary's head whipped around to glare at him.

He was not looking at her, but rather at Murray, who was inexplicably there, and who turned on his heel and left the room, followed by her father.

Mary's stomach dropped and she stood up. Murray was there because if this had been a boy, he would have been her father's heir.

"Where is the baby?" she asked.

She needn't have asked. All she had to do was follow the cries, piteous and small, in the nursery at the top of the house. The nurse was rocking the cradle, but doing little else to soothe her and Mary found herself picking up the child and making nonsense shushing sounds as she held her close.

She looked like Matthew, the ghost of his golden hair on her head, his chin and deep-set eyes. Her small face turned toward the sound of Mary's voice, and she pressed her tiny cheek against Mary's breast as she quieted.

For the first time in six months, Mary felt _something_.

It wasn't love. Mary freely admitted to herself she didn't have a maternal bone in her body, and she certainly wasn't going to be sentimental over Lavinia's baby.

It was fury, a cold, biting, deep-seated fury that this baby, like Mary before her, like countless generations before her and likely to come after, was somehow something less only because she was a girl. She had a right to be raised as what she was, the daughter of the heir to the Grantham estate. She was Matthew's first born, his _only _child, and now she was the only living evidence that he'd left behind.

She was a Crawley born at Downton Abbey.

He had not come back. It was up to her to look after Isobel, and now because of another promise, it was up to her to look after Matthew's daughter as well, and to ensure she had the life she deserved. Mary could do it easily on her own income. She could bring Isobel to London along with the baby.

But somehow, that wasn't enough. It wasn't right. This child deserved more.

It struck her quite suddenly what would make everything all right, for her, for this baby, and she almost laughed out loud at the simplicity of it. She looked down at the tiny face again. "Yours," she whispered. "I'm going to make it all yours."

* * *

><p>She took the baby girl, over the protestations of the nurse, down to the morning room. Isobel was still ashen, the drink in her hand barely touched. Violet was shockingly quiet, seated close to Isobel, watching her carefully. Cora had not moved from the armchair, had not stopped staring at the same place on the carpet. "Tell my father and Murray to come in here," she told the footman, and even Violet looked shocked at her tone.<p>

"Mary, you don't tell your father what to do," Cora murmured.

"Oh, yes, I do," Mary said sharply. "Especially now."

The two men were clearly not pleased at being summoned, but Mary did not care. "Papa," she began. "I want to discuss the taxes."

It was Robert's turn to go ashen. "Not now, Mary."

She realized no one else knew that he'd asked her. "Now, Papa. You've asked me to pay them and I've agreed, but I have a new condition."

Murray looked quickly at her father. "We can discuss this later, Lady Mary."

"No." She felt the baby stir and her arms tightened instinctively around her. "Is your desire to find a man on the family tree more important right now? Are you willing to hand this over to a shopkeeper somewhere?" Violet's intake of breath spurred her on. "You have a perfect solution right in front of you. Matthew was the heir. He has a child. She ought to inherit."

It was Murray who spoke first. "Lady Mary, the child isn't this family's concern."

"I'm making her my concern."

And she could feel the shift in the room, feel Isobel's dazed eyes fall on her, sense her mother standing up behind her, and she knew her grandmother was nodding without seeing it. "I made a promise to Matthew to take care of Cousin Isobel and Lavinia. Lavinia is gone. I promised her I would take care of her baby. That is what I will do."

"Mary." The edge of incredulity in Robert's voice only served to make Mary even angrier. "You're proposing we put a special bill in Parliament to break the entail and give the estate to this baby?"

"Her name is Elizabeth Crawley," Mary said.

"This is what you think I should do? Hand all of this over to Matthew's _daughter_?"

"No," she said, and the icy edge to her voice caused the room to go quite still. "I don't _think _you should do it. I _know _what you will do. You want me to save the estate? I'll save it. I'm telling you to break the entail and leave it all to me. _Your _daughter_._"

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you all for reviewing and favoriting/alerting this story. It's helping pass the time as I anxiously await my DVD delivery and try to avoid tumblr and livejournal and the interwebs in general. "Try" being the operative word there... some things are sneaking through. GAH! FACES! EYES! _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 2? **

This is what it was like to be rich and powerful, to have the ability to simply ask and to receive. What Murray had sworn would take years to enact was achieved in three months and she never had to use one of the newspapers to do it, or any of the tricks her lawyers had talked about.

The entail was smashed. Lady Mary Crawley Carlisle was now the heir to all of the Grantham estate, save the title, which at this point would likely die with her father. The moment at which she wrote the first cheque to pay the taxes should have been a triumphant, thrilling one.

She felt nothing.

She felt nothing then, and nothing when she signed her new will, leaving everything to her legal ward Elizabeth Lavinia Crawley, all of three months old then, and curiously an increasingly regular presence in Mary's daily life in London.

She had decided on her own that seeing the baby every day was important. The girl should know people other than her grandmother and her nanny, so the baby was brought to Mary at breakfast, and again before dinner. At first, it was a few minutes of holding her, noting her growth and changes in the baby book in such a clinical way that Sybil would be proud. But then, as the girl grew and began to really look at Mary, and smile at the sight of her, she liked having the child stay a little longer. She read aloud from the papers to her as the baby cooed from the large cradle she'd had moved into the morning room and the baby would stay in Mary's bedroom, kicking and crowing as Anna dressed Mary for dinner. She'd begun to call her Lily, for no other reason than the baby was entranced by the lilies in the morning room, and Elizabeth seemed far too long and serious a name for such a delicate, pretty baby.

Isobel, who had been dazed for weeks after Lavinia's death, was now enough like herself to have taken to being in London with Mary and her grandchild. She was a pleasant companion, and had, at Mary's insistence, taken Mary's place on a hospital board, which she seemed to be enjoying. They often took Lily to the park together, strolling slowly with countless other women in black, and it struck Mary that there was now a nation of women left behind, fatherless children as far as the eye could see, and an entire generation of young women who would never know love. She had not thought of herself as a writer, but when she mentioned this thought to the editor in chief during a meeting, he suggested she write about it. "It's your place as publisher after all," he said.

The piece was printed, and talked about for weeks. Isobel was enormously proud of her and Mary began to feel snatches of emotion again, mostly fury, after reading the letters to the paper about it, the stories of widows, of long-engaged young women who had lost their loved ones, of mothers who had lost their boys, the rage they all shared, the indignation at being left behind without the power to stop this stupid war, a war fought for male pride and stubbornness, a war in which millions were sacrificed for what turned out to be nothing.

And the Armistice came and went, and Isobel went into the room she had asked Mary to set aside for Matthew and cried amongst his books and clothes for what she had decided would be the last time.

Mary did not cry. On this night, she had decreed they would have trays in their rooms and would not dress for dinner. She asked for Lily to be brought early, and as she held the baby girl, fresh from her bath, she put a well-worn picture in front of them, and began to talk.

"This is your father, Lily," she said. "His name was Matthew Crawley. He was my cousin and my friend, and I loved him very, very much. I love him still, as you must, and I pray for him every night, as you must. He loved you before he even knew you. He was very smart, and very brave and very kind, and I want you to be all those things, too. I promised him I would take care of your Granny and your Mamma and I promised your Mamma I would take care of you. Now we have to take care of each other, my Lily."

She did not know that Isobel stood on the other side of her door, her heart breaking yet again.

* * *

><p>November ended and December began, and celebrating Christmas seemed almost pointless that year, between the achingly slow demobilization and deadly influenza, and Mary did not want to go to Downton and risk exposure on the train. If anything, she thought it would be best to begin new traditions in London, the better to help Isobel. It was strange how she now thought of this as her family. Sybil was in London and regularly came to breakfast or dinner, which was welcome and pleasant, as were Granny and Mamma's twice-weekly letters. Downton Abbey was a dream, a world away. Instead, this was her world, this post-war London, her newspapers and other businesses thriving beyond expectations, Isobel taking more and more interest in the hospital board, and Lily, now nearly six months old, brilliant and beautiful and an utter delight.<p>

It was uncommonly cold that December second, so cold that Mary chose not to go into the office, asking instead for a courier to bring her any needed papers. So when the doorbell rang, and she was in the morning room with Lily, playing on the floor, she was expecting someone quite different to walk in.

"Lady Mary Carlisle?" The voice was unfamiliar, and she turned around to see a tall Army officer, hat in hand. "I was looking for Mrs. Crawley."

"Isobel Crawley?" she asked and he nodded. The footman caught Mary's eye and slipped out, and Mary gestured to a chair. "Please sit." She stayed on the floor with the baby.

The officer eased into the chair and smiled at Lily, who waved happily at him. "She's very beautiful," he said softly.

"Thank you... Major?"

"Major Neville." He fell silent, looking thoughtfully at the little girl.

Mary's heart went empty as she observed him. She knew what these calls meant, the personal visit to inform the family that the remains had been found or that they'd confirmed the death. She knew Isobel had all but accepted it, but this would be hard on her.

Isobel came in, looking much as she had after Lavinia died, knowing just as Mary did what this young man had come to do. "Isobel, this is Major Neville."

Isobel nodded and sat down, watching the officer as he put himself back in the chair. "I suppose this means you've found his body." Her voice was tired, but steady, and Mary steeled herself for what was to come next, her eyes focusing on Lily as the words came out of his mouth.

"Major Crawley is on his way home."

"His body," Isobel said, and the man shook his head and smiled.

"No, Mrs. Crawley. He's alive."

* * *

><p>The kind officer had called for brandy, and Isobel had gulped it down, coughing. Mary remained on the floor, trying to quiet Lily, who was terrified at the scream that had erupted from her grandmother's mouth. <em>Matthew's alive, <em>she kept thinking to herself. _Matthew's alive. He's coming home. _ Yet nothing stirred in her. Isobel on the other hand, seemed to have come to life, the sparkle that had long been gone from her eyes returning as she looked hungrily at the young officer. "Alive," Isobel finally said.

"Yes, Mrs. Crawley." He looked over at Mary, as if questioning if she should be here as well.

"Lady Mary is the legal guardian of Major Crawley's daughter. She needs to hear this."

"Ah," said the officer. "The baby. She looks just like him."

"You've seen him?" Isobel sat forward.

"Yes, I've just come from Paris. He was brought there from Germany."

Isobel gasped. "He was in Germany?"

The major nodded, and a hint of a smile started on his face. "I can't tell you much, Mrs. Crawley. It's classified. Lady Mary, I have to ask you to keep this off the record."

Mary nodded. Classified... in Germany. Her mind reeled with the possibilities, which were mostly confirmed as Major Neville told them how German raiders, dressed as British soldiers and officers, attacked an Allied trench, which was then shelled by Germans. In the confusion, Matthew, wounded in the melee, was taken off by the Germans back to their field hospital.

"He speaks German and understands it well, and they thought he was one of theirs. He was able to get by at the hospital by pretending to be shellshocked. I can't tell you much more, other than he became a valuable intelligence asset inside Germany. You should be very proud of your son." He looked down at Lily, still clutched in Mary's arms. "She will be very proud of her father."

He could not tell them of Major Crawley's extraordinary courage, his abilities under pressure, pretending to never listen or hear as he memorized enormous amounts of information and passed it on without anyone ever suspecting that the shellshocked, stammering, injured German officer was actually a British spy.

"I've always been proud of my son," Isobel said softly. "When will he be home?"

"Tomorrow. He's on his way now up to the Channel crossing. They sent me ahead to prepare you. I'll accompany him when he arrives here." He stood up. "I will warn you, he's been through a lot. He will perhaps not be as you remembered him. Give him time to get used to you, and the child. Oh," and he turned back to them. "He knows about his wife's death. I was the one to tell him. He'll have questions about that, but he knows what happened." He nodded to Lady Mary and to Isobel and headed toward the door.

"Why did they think he was German?" Mary's voice stopped him. "When he was wounded in the raid, why did they think he was German?"

His face softened for a moment. "I suppose I can tell you. It was the dog."

Isobel frowned. "The dog?"

"He had a toy dog in his hand, he said, and the German medic recognized it apparently. Said to another medic he'd had one just like it. Major Crawley called it a _glucksbringer_, and that's when they thought he was one of the German raiders in British uniform. That trench was shelled out of existence before British medics could arrive. That little toy dog saved his life."

"_Glucksbringer?" _Isobel asked, but Mary answered.

"Good luck charm," she whispered.

* * *

><p>She had smiled happily at Isobel, told her to speak to the cook about Matthew's favorite meals, asked Campbell to arrange for someone to valet Major Crawley, and canceled her dinner engagements for the next two nights. At dinner, she had cheerfully listened to Isobel's plans for the next day, suggesting some ideas as to what would make him most comfortable, and saw her off to bed far too excited to sleep.<p>

Mary could not sleep, but it was not excitement. A strange heaviness had replaced the emptiness, a kind of feeling she could not easily identify. She prowled the house, mindlessly adjusting vases and books, thoughts she did not want to entertain rolling over and over in her head, surfacing and then sinking again. She could not believe it was real, that he would be here tomorrow, in her home, that he would see Lily.. Elizabeth, she told herself.. for the first time. She found herself in the nursery, staring down at the sleeping baby, the physical need to pick her up so strong she had to back away from the cradle and go back to her room. Like all nights, she sat in her chair, staring out the window for hours, as the night turned to dawn on a day that she knew would change her life, but she did not know how and as Anna came in, silent and aware of her mistress's state of mind, Mary was finally able to seal it all back up and feel what she wanted to feel, which was nothing.

* * *

><p>Mary skipped breakfast, choosing instead to take tea in the morning room with Lily.. Elizabeth, she told herself. The baby was particularly alert today, watching Mary as she read to her, following her as she moved about the room, reaching for her whenever she was close. Her eyes had just changed from the dark newborn hue to her father's icy blue, and today Mary found it unnerving, yet not as unnerving as Isobel's eyes.<p>

Isobel came into the morning room at ten-thirty with a just-delivered message, which informed them that Major Neville would be bringing Major Crawley at eleven, but would not be staying. "So it will just be three for lunch."

"Oh, no," Mary said. "It will be two. It should just be the two of you."

Isobel frowned. "You won't be here?"

Mary smiled. "It should just be the two of you. And when he comes, it should be just you and Elizabeth."

Isobel's head jerked up at that and an unreadable expression crossed her face as she stared at Mary, who looked away quickly and went back to her paper. "I have quite a bit of work to catch up on. I'm sure I'll see you both for dinner."

"Mary..." Isobel began.

"Is that the time? Good heavens." Mary stood up and smiled again at Isobel. "I'll be in my study if you need me." She stroked Lily's... Elizabeth's.. golden head and kissed the little hand that reached for her. She could feel Isobel's eyes burning into her as she walked out of the room, but she would not turn around.

The study was Richard's old room, stripped of all male accoutrements and filled with her books and her grandfather's desk, an odd present from Granny a year ago, but she appreciated it now more than she could say. The windows faced the street, and as she read the same six sentences over and over again, every car that passed made her shake.

The clock struck eleven. Her fingers felt numb, her eyes pricked with tiredness, her foot tapped without reason.

A car stopped.

She was at the window before the engine died, looking down at first one uniformed man, then a second who stepped from the back seat. The second one moved more slowly, a clear limp in his step, and she watched him take a deep breath as he stood, leaning heavily on an ebony cane. The strange heaviness began to return, thumping through her veins as he raised his head to look up, and she pulled back from the window, leaning so he could not see her, putting her hands over her ears so she could not hear Isobel, retreating into herself so she could feel what she wanted to feel, which was nothing.

She watched the clock, watched each minute tick by, eleven five, eleven six, eleven seven, eleven eight.

She tried to read, tried to write, tried to drink her tea without shaking.

Eleven twenty, eleven twenty-one.

Then she heard it... her. At first, she thought she imagined it, much as she imagined it nearly every night over the past six months when she would find herself in the nursery, thinking she heard crying. This was no imaginary cry. It was Lily, not an angry cry or a demanding cry, but a heartbroken, terrified, anguished sobbing that grew louder and louder with every breath.

A sob sprang from Mary's throat and she began to run through the house, down the stairs, thinking _no, she mustn't cry in front of her father, she mustn't be sad, she must be happy, he can't think she's afraid of him, he's her father, she must love him, she must, _and she rushed into the room, not letting herself look anywhere but at Lily. Her little arms reached for Mary, her sobs even louder and Mary gathered the girl up in her arms and sank to the floor.

"No, no," she heard herself saying. "You mustn't cry, Lily. Papa's come home. You mustn't cry, my love, my darling girl." She kissed away Lily's tears, and was rewarded with a shaky smile. "See? That's better. Smile for Papa. Papa's home." She looked up at the uniformed man who now stood before her, past the shiny boots, the medals on his chest, and the face, _his face, _beautiful, scarred, thinner, older, and finally saw his eyes shining.

It _was_ Matthew.

And she felt _everything._

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you all for your incredible reviews and comments. _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 3?**

He had spoken and thought in German for nearly six months, long enough that when the two intelligence officers entered his room, exchanged the series of code words with the man they knew only as Halo, and then spoke to him in English, at first he did not understand what they said. "It's over," finally sank into his mind, and he said his name aloud for the first time in six months, longer perhaps, since he had no memory of the last time he'd said "Major Matthew Crawley."

They had brought an ambulance to retrieve him, which he did not need, but ended up appreciating as they drove him across Germany and he slept the whole way, his mind and body finally able to let go of performing as a shellshocked German officer who could not remember where he was from. The two officers, who'd been hiding in plain sight as members of Ludendorff's household staff, made a great joke over his insistence he had to bring the toy dog with him. "We should have called you Sirius instead of Halo," they told him, after he described how the mere presence of the toy had meant the difference between life and death in that trench.

He did not tell them that it meant the difference between madness and sanity in that convalescent home where he'd been placed as a spy, the country house of one of Germany's most prominent generals, who was there to recover as well. It sat by his bed, and was the first thing he saw every morning and the last thing he saw at night. It reminded him where he was, what he was doing, this _glucksbringer_, and on the days when he feared at any moment they would enter his room and shoot him, it brought to mind the only English words he'd allowed himself to think.

_Goodbye then, without a scratch, you'll be the first to know, I think I'm about to be happy, would you be happy if it were, of course I want you, you should have more faith._

He felt guilty that he retreated only to memories of _her _and not of his wife when this happened, but he told himself it would stop once he returned to England and brought the dog back as promised, without a scratch. He, on the other hand, with his mended leg and cut-up cheek was not quite as perfect. Nevertheless, he would have to do, and he knew Lavinia would not mind in the slightest.

He wondered if it was a girl or boy, if everyone thought he was dead, or merely missing. He wanted to get word to them quickly, but the officers driving him to Paris told him it would be a few weeks of briefings before he could send messages or go home. "We are treasure troves, my friend, and we are about to be drained dry of information before they send us on our merry way," the younger of the men told him. "Don't worry. It won't hurt."

But it did hurt, when the kind-faced Major Neville gently broke it to him that Lavinia had died in childbirth. He cried, not caring who saw him, as the man told him he had a daughter who was thriving with her grandmother and her guardian. He cried for Lavinia, he cried for his child and his mother, but deep down he knew he cried hardest for the guilt over his initial sensation at learning his wife had died, which was not sadness. He cried until he couldn't, and then he simply sat and thought until he felt what he wanted to feel, which was nothing, the same emptiness that kept him safe for six months inside Germany, the same emptiness that had kept him going for four years.

* * *

><p><em>He will perhaps not be as you remembered him.<em>

Isobel shuddered at the possibilities and looked at her granddaughter, who was happily chewing on a rubber ring and grinning. She remembered him as a baby much like his daughter, as a boy with soft blond hair, as a howling, impossible schoolboy, as a young university man, as a bright lawyer, as a man in love.

As a soldier, it was spotty, her memory of her son, and she wondered at who would come through the door. Even the healthiest coming out of those fields were changed. The worst cases were madmen, and so many were in the middle, bitter, hollow shells of themselves, showing little if any interest in the life they'd left behind. Matthew had seemed fairly strong each time he'd come home, but it was impossible to tell, since he'd thrown up walls around himself since that August day when he'd withdrawn his proposal to Mary.

Mary. She was initially shocked that Mary did not want to be there when Matthew came home. After everything she'd observed and overheard, she knew Mary had done everything out of love for Matthew. Yet she now understood Mary's reluctance. She had no idea what frame of mind Matthew would be in, and to have done all of this and to then discover that love would not be returned would be crushing to Mary, and Isobel thought sadly, to herself as well. She loved Mary like a daughter, more than she had loved Lavinia, something she was not ashamed to admit. Isobel admired strong women, but more than that, she admired women who could do things with that strength, and she was never less than amazed at what Lady Mary Crawley managed to do every day.

As she heard a car stop outside, she wondered what they would do about the baby. Matthew's daughter loved Mary, and whether or not Mary could admit it to herself, Mary loved Lily.

* * *

><p>It was cold in London that December third, and as he stepped out of the car in Belgrave Square, he shivered slightly. He had never seen this house. All the times he had been in London, every time he'd seen <em>her, <em>it was at Grantham House. He'd believed that to be a large and pleasant home, but it paled in comparison to this. He looked up and saw a flash at an upper window, a curtain flutter, and a weight settled in his stomach, an odd feeling he could not identify.

He heard his mother's soft cry before he saw her, and then found his arms filled with her, and he hugged her firmly back. He did not hear anything Major Neville said as he left, nor anything his mother told him as she brought him into a bright, warm room, pretty and comfortable, where he came face to face with his daughter for the first time. Neville had said his daughter was beautiful, said she looked just like him, but he was not prepared for the absolute shock of seeing her. Neither was she, apparently, as the happy smile she gave his mother faded as she regarded him with some suspicion. He could see himself in her, and a little of Lavinia, but there was something else about her he could not put his finger on.

* * *

><p>He was on the better end of the scale, she could tell almost instantly. He was quiet, but not the quiet of the thousand-yard stare. He agreed to tea as he regarded his daughter, but made no move to pick her up. Lily looked positively hostile, which nearly made her laugh. She knew he'd be shocked by the resemblance, and that it would take him time to bond with her, but the fact that Lily was going to be equally as difficult was for some reason amusing. She sat near him, and could not help but touch his arm, to make sure he was real, as she watched him watch the door.<p>

* * *

><p><em>They will want to touch you, to make sure you're real, <em>he'd been told in Paris by agents who'd returned before him. So he tolerated it, even though the touch of another person was mildly irritating right now, the feeling of this room a bit intimidating, and he could not stop wondering where _she_ was.

The door opened and he shot to his feet, painfully, and sat back down as the footman entered with the tea tray. He noticed a thin scar across the young man's left hand, and that he was assessing Matthew's uniform and medals with a practiced eye. "Where were you?" Matthew asked.

"Ypres," the footman answered. His voice was low and hoarse, and Matthew knew the younger man had been gassed. "You, sir?"

"The Somme," he answered. "And then intelligence behind German lines." That much was not classified, and the footman returned the nod. "Major Matthew Crawley."

"I know, sir. Corporal James Caswell, sir." And the two men broke social protocol in favor of military protocol, ghosts of smiles crossing their faces as they acknowledged a shared sacrifice before James departed and Matthew went back to staring at the same place on the carpet, ears primed for any sound.

* * *

><p>His mother watched him warily as she poured for him, watched his eyes dart around the room, dart back to the door. <em>They will not know how to act, so they will act strangely,<em> she knew from years of dealing with returning soldiers. _Let them take the lead._

So they lapsed into silence. Matthew drank his tea quickly and put the cup down, a little too loudly, and they both jumped at the sound. "Sorry," he said softly, and smiled, and was relieved to see his mother visibly relax.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said softly. "We've missed you."

"We?" His voice was sharp, too sharp, and he winced at it.

"Your family," she said.

He nodded. A door opened somewhere in that hall and his eyes went straight back to the door, falling back to his knees after it was apparent no one was coming in the room. "So," he began, "When did you move to London?"

"Six months ago, after..." She stopped.

"Mother, I know what happened." He looked back at the baby, whose blue eyes were fixed on him, and again, he felt something he could not place.

"Matthew, I'm so sorry."

He nodded brusquely. "Thank you."

The formality shocked her. "Matthew..."

"Mother." The coldness in his voice stopped her. "My wife died six months ago. My wife has been dead for a week." His hands twisted together and then flopped apart in a gesture of helplessness. He did not speak again for four minutes.

She should have known, of course, that it would be confusing, and difficult, that her death would be fresh to him, where it was a part of her past. She watched him listen to the house, look at the door, look back at his child, and then return to staring at the carpet, a cycle that began to worry her with its consistency. He was looking for something, and she did not know what it was.

The clock read eleven thirteen when he finally spoke again.

"I lost four years of my life," he said softly. "And when I come back, it's to a place I don't know. Why are you in London?"

"Mary insisted."

"Did she?" His eyes fell to the carpet again. "And that's who you listen to now?"

"Matthew, you asked her to take care of me and take care of Lavinia." Isobel's voice was icy, and he flinched. "What on earth possessed you to burden her like that?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have told Lavinia."

"Well, Mary kept her promise to you, and she kept her promise to Lavinia to care for your child. I don't know what would have happened if she hadn't, since Murray and Lord Grantham seemed ready to toss us both out at the first mention of 'It's a girl.'"

"What?" His voice startled the baby, who began to whimper. Isobel rose and picked her up, stroking her hair.

"Matthew, they thought you were dead. We got a telegram that said 'missing, presumed killed' and suddenly all they cared about was who would inherit. If you'd had a boy..." She stopped and kissed the baby's head. "We'd probably still be there."

A faint rage started deep inside him, forcing the weight up into his throat and eyes. His mother looked quite small, all of a sudden, and her voice sounded like it was coming through mud. She was saying _her_ name.

"It was Mary..." She took a deep breath. "Mary had to pay the taxes on Downton this year. The estate would have been shattered if she didn't. She did it on one condition. They had to break the entail so Mary could inherit, and so she could pass the estate onto your daughter."

He looked at the little girl, who looked so terribly sad, so like Lavinia the last time he saw her, but yet there was still something more. A new wave of fury followed, crashing through the weight bearing down on him, the first real feeling he'd had in months, years even, and he turned on his mother.

"She broke the entail." It was not a question.

"They put a private bill in Parliament..."

He cut her off. "Oh, I know how they'd do it. Don't forget, I had to investigate how to destroy my own inheritance. So she gets everything, and I get a title I never wanted in the first place."

"Matthew, no one thought you'd survived. What else was she supposed to do? What were all of us supposed to do?"

"She takes my mother, she takes my child, she takes everything," he muttered.

_Not as you remembered him._

He was irrational at this point, lashing out like this, and her first reaction was to try and calm him down, but she knew from experience that the irrational cannot be reasoned with. She also knew, from raising this boy, that whatever he was angry about, it wasn't Mary breaking the entail. She was glad for the first time that day that Mary had chosen to hide in her study. She was not sure the girl could have taken this.

Matthew's left leg began to twitch and he grimaced, and her heart went out to him.

"Can you take anything for the pain?" she asked, and he jumped.

"Yes," he said slowly. "But I don't." He looked again at his daughter, and an unrecognizable emotion crossed his face. "My motherless child," he whispered.

""She has a mother, Matthew."

He nodded. "I won't let her forget Lavinia."

"I'm not talking about Lavinia."

The fury was now white hot in his veins, and he was not quite sure what would happen if he stood up, if a person got any closer to him, if someone got in his way. "_She _is not her mother." he hissed, and his daughter's sobs grew louder.

"For God's sake, Matthew, your child knows no other mother. That young woman is carrying the weight of her dead husband's estate and Downton, which would be too much for any one person, but then she chose to take on a woman who is no relation whatsoever and made a wonderful home for her. She took on a child who is barely related to her and gave her the world. She didn't have to do any of it, but she did, all to keep a promise to you, because she loves you, Matthew."

"Lady Bountiful," he muttered. "It doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter. We'll go back to Manchester. I'll practice law again and I'll support my daughter and my mother. Unless of course, you'd prefer to stay here with her. Where is she, by the way?"

He looked almost mad, his eyes flickering blue flames, and she put the sobbing Lily down in her cradle, keeping hold of only one small hand. "Matthew," she began, but he was having none of it.

"Where is she?"

A door shut somewhere down the hall and his eyes flew back to the door, and it wasn't anger that Isobel saw flash across his eyes. It was hope. The truth of why he was so angry was perfectly clear to Isobel and she thanked God it was so simple.

He was furious because Mary wasn't there, and she hoped she was right as she let go of her granddaughter's hand and let her wail.

* * *

><p>He was raging inside now, quiet, but furious, the first real feeling he'd had in months, furious that Mary had taken over his life, taken over what he should have been doing all this time. It was irrational, he knew, but for a moment it all looked as if he'd come back to nothing, that she'd taken his mother, his child, his birthright away from him. And in the next moment that was irrationally funny, because it had only been his birthright because it wasn't hers.<p>

And then he heard his daughter's sobs, a heartbreaking sound, and he did not know what to do. A thousand thoughts were rushing through his mind, the weight in his stomach now pitching back and forth, feeling crashing into nothingness and then back again. _She _had kept the promise, he had put so much on _her_, expected so much, and _she_ had kept his family safe. That look on his daughter's face wasn't his, or Lavinia's. It was _hers, _the woman who'd raised his child, loved his child, given her the world, all because she kept her promise because... _she_... loved... him.

And then he heard a sound above him, a door slam, and fast footsteps cross the floor. Someone was running, the sound getting louder as the baby's cries grew. Someone was tearing down the stairs and across the hallway, and he dragged himself to his feet as the door flew open and a blur of black and white rushed in and swept up his daughter.

It was _her._

And he looked down in amazement as _she _sank to the floor, kissed his baby, called her Lily, rocked her, made her smile. And his hand reflexively went to his pocket and gripped the small toy dog as those beautiful eyes, filled with tears, met his.

* * *

><p>It was as if they were back in Crawley House, six years ago, when Lady Mary had overheard her son's petulant comments about having one of the girls pushed on him, and she'd swept in and shut him down with a look, a look that caused him to gape in absolute, unadulterated adoration at the creature in front of him. Her son, her soldier, with medals across his chest and a terrible scar on his cheek, her son the hero, her son who could hardly stand on his left leg, was staring at Mary comforting his daughter with a look of such complete, utter love that her own eyes filled with tears.<p>

She was so glad to be right.

* * *

><p>And his heart lurched and melted, and everything he'd locked away for years, the boxes in which he'd put <em>her<em>, put Lavinia, put his mother, his family, his life at Downton, his life before war, his life during war, the six months of sheer terror in Germany, all those boxes suddenly shattered and became one thing, all himself, and where he had taken comfort in feeling nothing before, now he wanted only this, to feel everything as he looked at _her._

"Mary," he whispered.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you again for the reviews/alerts/favorites... I really appreciate all your wonderful comments and glad you're enjoying it. _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 4?**

Her eyes swam with tears at the sound of his voice. She could barely see him, but she knew he was smiling back at her and she swallowed back the sobs, thinking_ I mustn't cry, I mustn't be sad, I mustn't make him sad, he's home. He's home. Matthew's home. _The baby crowed, and she gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, her heart swelling at the soft giggle in response, and her eyes cleared as happiness... _happiness... _ bubbled up inside her. "Matthew," she said softly. "Have you met your daughter?"

He could not stop smiling, the rush of unfamiliar feeling where his child was concerned pushing the joy to the surface and he had to keep himself from laughing aloud at the incredible sensation. "Not properly," he replied. His knees were actually weak and he lowered himself into the chair.

She turned the baby to face him, stealing another kiss. "Elizabeth, this is your Papa. Remember? I told you about him." The baby, smiling in Mary's arms, looked up.

His hands came up and then fell back, and he looked at Mary.

"If you reach for her, she'll come to you." She held the child up, a little closer to him, and he reached out his hands and grinned at the baby girl, who hesitated for only a second before stretching her little arms to him, and for the first time, Matthew Crawley held his daughter.

"Hello, Lily," he said, and felt his heart burst as she grabbed at his cheek, his buttons, and he laughed as she tried to remove one of his medals. The frown she bestowed upon him only made him laugh harder. "No, no, you can't have that. Too sharp." He reached into his pocket. "Here. This is better for you. His name is Perseus." He did not allow himself to look down at Mary's sharp intake of breath as he presented his daughter with the toy that had saved his life.

Perseus. _Glucksbringer. _Mary began to shake at the sight of it, the little dog she'd given to him at the train station two years ago, an excuse to see him before he left, to be alone with him even if it was just for a few minutes, even if it wasn't the way she wanted it to be, even if it was for the last time. That it had saved him, had been such good luck was still not real. _He _wasn't real, sitting there with Lily in his lap, with the dog. Lily was utterly entranced by it, ignoring everything else, even her father's soft kisses on the top of her head as she turned it over and over in her hands, her little mouth a perfect O. The sight made Mary chuckle, and Lily's head raised at the sound and she stared at Mary.

"Without a scratch," Matthew said softly. "Well, mostly."

Mary froze, her breath hitching unexpectedly, and suddenly the smile broke on her face and she covered her eyes so he and Lily should not see her cry. She could not stop herself, could not control all that was rushing through her and she wanted to flee, only her legs had not the strength to lift her. There was a rustling, then soft words above her that she could not quite hear as she fought to keep the sobs down, and then a click as the door shut.

"Mary," she heard him say. "Thank you."

Her head rose, and she realized Isobel and Lily were gone, and they were quite alone in the room. "For what?" she whispered as she brushed at her eyes.

"For my mother. For Lily."

"Elizabeth. I know you wanted Elizabeth..."

He stopped her. "I like Lily. It suits her. She looks like a little flower."

"She likes flowers, and the park. She likes to be read to... oh, you should see her laugh at 'The Three Little Pigs.' You'll have to learn to huff and puff." She was shaking, speaking too fast, barely allowing herself more than a glance at him. "You look splendid."

He shook his head. "A little worse for wear." He scooted a little farther forward in his chair, putting himself that much closer to her. Her shivering worried him, made him think it might be shock.

"Splendid," she repeated. She could not stop her hands from picking at her skirt.

"I mean it," he replied. "Thank you. For my family."

"It was nothing."

"It's not nothing, Mary."

"Look at what you did. You.." She could not finish, the tears coming again, faster than before. Her hand reached out and touched one of the medals. "You risked your life."

"You won in Parliament," he whispered. "You took on your husband's businesses. You took on my mother, you brave girl." She snorted, and he felt a familiar ache, one he had not felt in some time. "I'd prefer Parliament. And the Germans."

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered. "Don't be silly." Her hands twisted in her lap and she smiled a little, yet she still would not look at him. "Would you like some tea?" She glanced at the tray. "I should ring for more."

"Mary."

The feelings his voice alone could spark, long suppressed, long hidden, were far too much to take, battering her in waves of happiness, desire, sadness, and the overwhelming loss they both shared. _I must be strong for him_, she told herself. If she looked at him, she would be lost.

She would not look at him, and all he wanted to do was stop those tears coursing down her cheeks, stop the slight shake in those thin shoulders. _Too thin, _he told himself, bowed under the weight he'd put on them. "Mary," he said again. "You've carried so much for so long. Let me help." At the inexplicable, slight shake of her head, a sentence, spoken only minutes earlier, replayed itself in his brain.

So he reached for her, his hands finding hers, and it was as it had been so many years ago, that quick, electric shock at the first touch, but now, perhaps as a result of the years, it spread not as a shock, but as a balm, warm as firelight, a velvety drug through their veins, stopping her tears and giving him strength.

And she came to him, winding her arms around his neck, her cheek against his, and his arms wrapped around her as she whispered. "You're home."

And he found he could stand, pulling her to her feet and holding her even tighter, the only movements the stroke of his hand on her back and the play of her hands in his hair, nothing mattering except the touch of the other person and the sound of their breaths, and they felt everything.

* * *

><p>The clock struck twelve.<p>

"An hour," she whispered. "You've only been home for an hour."

"Have I outstayed my welcome?" he murmured, and she pulled back to look at him.

"Of course not. Will you stay? Here, I mean? With us?"

He nodded. "As long as you'll have me."

Her breath caught at that, and she smiled to cover it up. "Lunch is at 1:30. It will be just the three of us. Sybil threatened to come to dinner, but I told her to wait until tomorrow, unless you feel up to her. Trust me, you need to be on your toes."

"Sybil's in London?"

"She's at university. If you thought she was political before..." She grinned happily. "I'm proud of her."

"I'm surprised she's not staying with you."

The Mary of old gleamed through as she gave him a wicked, conspiratorial smile. "If Mamma or Papa or Edith asks, the answer is yes, of course she's staying with me."

"Does Cousin Violet ask?"

"Granny knows she's living with other students. All female," she said with a wave of her hand. "It's our secret that Sybil is so independent. Although the number of breakfasts and dinners she eats here, and the number of times she and her housemates use my library to study and then end up sleeping here, usually means she's around when they call, so it's not really a lie."

"Incredible," he said. "I'm gone for a few months and the women of Downton have taken over the world."

"Hardly." She tilted her head to the side. "So I'll tell her dinner tomorrow night?"

"Yes," he said. "I'd like just us tonight. Mother, of course. And Lily. Has she graduated to the dining room yet?"

Mary laughed. "She has just discovered mashed peas and applesauce. Dining rooms are a long way off." She took his arm. "I'll show you your rooms. And a little of the house, if you don't mind the walk? So you know where you are?"

He retrieved his cane from the chair. "Lead the way."

* * *

><p>"Do you want to change for lunch?" They turned up the staircase and she kept her pace slow, taking her cues from him.<p>

He nodded. "I could stand to get out of these boots. I don't suppose you've got any of my old suits?"

"Of course we do. Is it the wound?"

"Wounds," he said. "Well, honestly it's all from the same thing, but it's a lot of different injuries."

"May I see it?"

He frowned. "Maybe later, when I'm wearing proper shoes and trousers, but I make no promises. It's pretty nasty."

"How's the pain?"

"Tolerable. I won't take anything for it. Too many men..." He let that thought go, and smiled instead. "It keeps getting better. It won't if it stays this cold."

"Well, we have your winter clothes out. Campbell will valet you. The butler. Did you meet him when you came in?"

"Briefly. Was he Sir Richard's..."

"No," She interrupted him smoothly. "Campbell was my uncle Marmaduke's valet and then ran Aunt Rosamund's home before the war. She hasn't forgiven him for joining up without asking permission. They discharged him last year after he was gassed, and I needed someone to run this house."

"Your footman was gassed as well."

"James? Yes. So was the chauffeur." They reached the top of the stairs and he tried not to seem tired. "I seem to have a soft spot for veterans."

"Do you have a soft spot for me?"

"Not that kind," she said and stopped in front of a door. "These are your rooms."

"Rooms," he said, and stepped inside.

He saw his bed from Crawley House, his old wardrobe in the dressing room, his own suit already pressed and ready for him. A pair of doors opened onto a study, and he saw his books and his old desk, his favorite fountain pen at the ready, and photographs... photographs of Lily, of his mother, of Lavinia.

"It is my room," he whispered. "You didn't do all this in one day."

"No," she replied. "You've always had these rooms, ever since your mother and Lily came to stay."

He reached for her hand, the soothing calm of her touch washing over him again as he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, and then the palm, holding it briefly to his unscathed cheek before releasing it. "Where is the nursery?"

"The staircase right across the hall," she said, her cheeks pink from the attention. "When you'd like to change, ring for Campbell. I'll be in the nursery for a while. You should come up. You can distract Lily."

"Distract her?"

She paused at the door, the mischievous Mary of old twinkling through. "Perseus is _mine._"

* * *

><p>He sat for a moment in his chair, the one he'd brought from Manchester to Crawley House, partly because he loved it, and partly because he'd wanted something that his and not anyone else's. It felt right in this study, placed by the fire, next to his father's terrifically frightening tigerskin rug and a mantelpiece full of framed photographs. The ones of Lily were all new to him, obviously, but so were some of the ones of Lavinia, and he was particularly touched by one of Mary and Lavinia in a car, both of them laughing. He still could not quite believe that she was gone, that the world was as it was, that he was under a roof with Mary and his mother and his daughter, and it all felt oddly right, even as the guilt rushed up. He wondered, as he got up and rang for Campbell, where Lavinia's things were kept, and whether he would be able to face going through them.<p>

"Major Crawley?" Campbell's voice, like the footman's, was a fraction lower than it should have been, a bit rustier, and Matthew silently thanked God he didn't have that throat and chest pain to deal with.

"Campbell?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Two things. Number one, I haven't had anyone dress me in at least ten months, so forgive me in advance. Number two, I'm going to yell when that boot comes off, no matter how careful you are. It's not you."

"Very good, sir."

"No, Campbell, it's actually terrible."

"As you say, sir."

At least the man smiled at that last bit, Matthew thought, as the boot was wrenched off, and he yelled.

* * *

><p>It was just past one when he emerged, feeling oddly exposed without his uniform. The suit was slightly too big, which Matthew had expected after six months of injury and recovery, but even so, it felt somehow wrong as he opened the nursery door.<p>

"Look, Lily. It's Papa."

His heart soared at the sound of her voice, and then crashed out of his chest at the sound of his daughter's babble. He took in the pretty scene, his daughter in Mary's lap, a book in Mary's hand and his mother knitting. "Is that Latin or Greek?" he asked as he sat in the chair next to Mary.

"Goldilocks, I'm afraid." She smiled at him. "Look at you. Mr. Crawley again."

"A little shabby," he said softly.

"Not at all," she said. "A vast improvement." Lily reached for him and Mary laughed. "Well, I've been replaced. You can read to her. I'll check on lunch." She handed the child to him and disappeared.

"Well," Isobel said. "I'm glad that's settled."

"What's settled?"

She only smiled as she whipped the pale pink yarn around and around the needles. "Finish the book. She's at the too-cold porridge part."

He was particularly proud of his bear growls, which elicited smile after smile from Lily, and even more proud that as he finished, she had nestled closer to him and fallen asleep. He waved off the nanny and held her for a few minutes longer, reveling in the sheer joy of it, of all of it.

* * *

><p>He'd forgotten how lovely a dinner could be, how candlelight and conversation could be so satisfying, how port tasted knowing you weren't heading back into a hole in the French countryside. He'd had a remarkably lively discussion with Mary over the impending Paris conference, a discussion she called a training session for dinner with Sybil.<p>

Now, seated in the drawing room, across from Mary, he found it all a bit odd, wearing his third outfit in less than twelve hours, just as he did when he moved to Downton all those years ago. She was strangely intimidating just as she had been back then, but instead of snobbery and sea monsters, she was working, scanning a folio of papers, a tiny frown on her forehead. "Building sale," she'd said. "Sorry. It will only take a minute. I have to send these back in the morning." He was astounded by what she had become, and wondered if he did not notice these things about her before, or if he had always known what she was capable of, and that was what drew him to her.

"There." She handed the folio to Campbell and sat back in her chair. "Do you want another drink?"

He shook his head. "Building sale?"

"Some people buy horses. He bought buildings, but he hadn't gotten around to doing anything with this one yet. I had a good offer, so..." Her voice trailed off. "This is odd, isn't it?"

"Very." He laughed. "We have changed, haven't we?"

"Not that much," she replied. "Did you finish all your telephone calls today?"

"Yes." He put down his drink. "Your father was very glad to hear my voice."

Her smile faded. "He's missed his son."

Always this, Matthew thought, the chasm they had to cross before they became friends so long ago. He took her hand, pleased that she was not wearing gloves, and stroked the palm with his fingers.

She smiled at his touch. "I mean that, Matthew. He thought of... thinks of you.." The present tense made her laugh happily. "It was just so hard after we thought you'd... " Her face grew sad again. "We fought. I think he felt breaking the entail was a failure somehow on his part, which just made me angrier. Anyway," and she nodded her head for emphasis. "That's all over now. You're home, and there will be another Earl of Grantham at Downton Abbey."

"Is that a proposal?"

He could not quite believe he'd said it. The air crackled, and her fingers gripped his suddenly, and the heat between them flared as it had not done in years. "Downton is yours, after all," he murmured.

A shocked expression crossed her face. "Didn't my father tell you?"

"Tell me what?" He was utterly lost. "The entail is broken. Downton goes to you."

"Not anymore. There was a contingency in the bill."

"What contingency?"

She smiled again, and touched his cheek. "You, Matthew."

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Anybody else's muse just a fraction sad after S2E5? Writing this cheered me up a little.. I hope it does the same for you. If you haven't alerted this and you're still interested at the end... well, it might get... more… grown-up next time. Thanks again for all your reviews and comments!_

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 5?**

He stood up. "No."

"Matthew..."

"No. It's not right." He limped to the mantel and stared into the fire. "I won't accept it."

"You don't have a choice, Matthew."

"_Why would they do that?"_

She recoiled at the fury in his voice. "You're the heir to the Grantham estate. If you walked back through those doors, you think they'd want the Earl to be without a home?"

His hand gripped the marble, his knuckles white. "Mary, Downton should always have been yours. It should still be yours. You fought for it. You paid the taxes. You..." He turned back to her. "You did it for Lily, and I can't let you give it back."

"I did it for me as well, Matthew." She rose to face him. "I couldn't stomach the idea of anyone else having it just because they were born a boy. And it's not a matter of giving it back. Nobody controls this other than the law. It's done. There's no changing it now. It was the right thing to do. It is the right thing to do."

"Was it your father's idea? Murray's?" He was fuming now. "They were never willing to do it for you. My mother said they were practically ready to throw her out with Lily."

"It was my idea."

Of anything she could have said to him, this shocked him the most. _Her idea. _His mouth opened and closed, he leaned more heavily on the mantel and eased the weight from his wounded leg. "What were you thinking?" he breathed.

It took everything in her not to burst into tears. "That you might come back," was all she could choke out.

Matthew's jaw clenched as he stared at his hand pushing and pulling at the mantel, his mind racing. His mouth began moving, and at first she could not hear him. "What?" she whispered.

He looked at her. "You'd give it up for me?"

"Matthew," she murmured, her eyes burning with tears and he could see what he had always wanted to see in her eyes. "What am I giving up? You're alive. You're here."

"I love you," he said.

It washed over them both so fast they could not stop it, the heavy, knowing desire raging across them both like fire as they stared at one another, the need so strong it knocked her back a step, her legs unsteady. His eyes darkened as he moved toward her, and then shut tightly as he hissed in pain. She stopped, tried to reach for him, but he waved her off and sat down, his hand gripping his left knee. "Matthew..." she began.

"It's normal. It's nothing."

"May I see it?"

He smiled grimly. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He bent forward and pulled up his left trouser leg, revealing the stocking and the garter, covering a tightly bandaged leg. He flicked open the fasteners, pushed off the stocking, and began unwrapping the leg, his eyes avoiding hers. It was worse than she imagined, a matched set of four craters from shrapnel surrounding the place where his bone had pushed through the skin of his calf, bits of muscle twisted in the raised scars and the crowning glory, the chunk simply missing from his calf.

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered. "However did you manage to keep speaking in German with that?"

"Had to survive," he said as he shrugged. He reached for the bandage, but she was suddenly at his feet, kneeling before him.

"Let me," she said, and she began methodically rolling up the bandage, her head bowed, staring at the bare leg before her. Her eyes traveled from his boot-callused foot, the scratched-up ankle, the disastrous wounds, ending on his scarred knee. She did not dare look higher, did not dare look in his eyes again, not now, not when his foot was brushing her knee, not when she knew exactly what he was thinking, what he wanted, what she desperately wanted. _He loves me, _she thought with a glorious thrill.

He looked at the dark head, the pink diffusing across the pale cheeks, the fingers winding up the bandage, the desire in him so strong he was having trouble breathing. To know that she felt the same way, that she _wanted_ him as he did, that she loved him was almost too much to bear. He ached to touch her, but he did not know yet how to begin. It was still not quite all right.

"I think," she said softly. "Can you flex your foot?"

"I was wrong," he said as he acquiesced. "You are a bit of a Florence Nightingale."

She laughed. "Sybil showed me once or twice how to wrap one of these." She wound it once around his foot, then up around the ankle, then back down, keeping it tight, but not excessively so.

"When did Sybil decide to stop nursing?"

Her fingers paused for a second, before continuing the steady wind up his leg. "Sybil had a very rough spring. She lost patients, which she took very hard, and then Branson..."

"The chauffeur?"

"Yes. Nothing, but... you know. So Mamma asked me to take her away for a few weeks, bring her to London, and get her mind off things. I knew she'd always wanted to go to school, so I put the university option in her path. Pulled a few strings. Thank God Papa made us learn some Latin. She's thriving."

"Does she love Branson?"

"For someone who's always been so romantic, she's frighteningly practical about love." She smoothed the top of the bandage and clipped it. "I don't know, honestly. I think she feels something for him, but she's not willing to explore it. At least not yet." She slid the stocking over his foot and leg and snapped it in place. "For all I know, a few years at university and she'll become a complete revolutionary. And I'll have to have him to tea." She took hold of the hem and tugged it down. "There." Her hand rested lightly on his ankle for just a moment as she looked back into his eyes. "I love you, too."

His hand, almost of its own accord, came level with her cheek and the tips of his fingers strummed against her skin. "When will you marry me?"

Her head tilted toward his touch, reveling in the contact before she slowly stood up. The balm of his touch had turned to electricity pooling deep inside her, and she knew it would not take much more to put her over the edge. "I think you need time," she said softly.

"Time," and he laughed bitterly. "I lost four years in a back and forth between two worlds. Time stopped and started. I came home and I met Lavinia. I went back out and I killed men. I came home again and I asked Lavinia to marry me. I finally went to Downton after two years and you sat next to me at dinner and it was as if those two years didn't exist, as if it was 1914 all over again and you were like a dream, but it was 1916 and I was in love with someone else, yet I loved you still, possibly far more than I'd loved you before. I read about your wedding in a newspaper clipping and it wasn't real. It still felt like if I came home, you'd be at Downton, next to me at the dinner table, only when I came home, you were gone. I married Lavinia and five days later I killed a trench full of Germans, all likely husbands or lovers of women like Lavinia, like you, waiting for the men who would never come home, thanks to me. On leave, everything was mechanical, everything," he said pointedly, and gripped her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. "I felt nothing, pretended to feel something, all in a vacuum, when the only time that felt right was in a trench, with my men, filthy and stinking and aching to kill. I hear I'm going to be a father and all I can think is that I've been killing other men's children. And then when I thought everything was over, that this German was going to bayonet me through the throat, as they were doing to every Englishman around me," and he flinched at the sob he heard, "I heard that damned medic say something about the dog, and I just started speaking German. I felt an absolute coward, not admitting to being a British officer, not taking the death I had coming to me. And it saved me. I've been branded a hero for what I did after that, but I left behind men who'd trusted me. I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life, just as I will live with the guilt that when I was behind German lines and I let myself think of my life back home, I did not think of Lavinia. When I knew she died, I loved her, but I did not feel..." His voice cracked.

Her heart broke for him, knowing all too well what he meant.

"So time won't change anything, other than healing this wreck of a leg a little more, and making me even older than I am. My daughter will grow up. Nothing I do can change the past. I'm not in two places anymore. Now it's one place and it's only going forward. I have to go forward." He looked up at her again, his beautiful eyes bright, his face intolerably sad. "You've always been able to do that, haven't you? Move forward? You don't seem to dwell on what can't be changed."

"I learned that the hard way," she whispered. There was something about this night, about the crackle in the air, his brutal confession that made the next sentences come out of her mouth. "There was something I couldn't change about myself, which is why I could never say yes to you. I couldn't bear to tell you then, couldn't bear what you might think of me."

He reached for her other hand and held them tightly. "Can you bear to tell me now?" She nodded, and he kissed the tops of her fingers. "Say it quickly, then."

"Kemal Pamuk did not die in _his_ room."

His hands gripped hers a little tighter.

"He died in mine, in my bed. In my arms. I didn't invite him, but he found his way in and I didn't say no." She looked down at his sleek blond head, his forehead pressed against her hands. He was silent for a full minute, the clock ticking like a third heartbeat. "Could you have forgiven me for that?"

"Not then," he said quietly, and her heart fell. "But I was a prig. I would have been a stupid fool not to forgive you, and I can tell you that after my first day on a battlefield with German bullets flying at me, I would have written begging for your forgiveness. It shouldn't have mattered, and it would never have mattered again, and it doesn't matter." He kissed her wrists. "Can you forgive me?"

"For what?"

"For all that I did. All that I am. "

"There is nothing to forgive. Nothing matters," she whispered. "Only that you're here." She touched his scarred cheek. "Look at your face."

"A bit of a mess," he said softly, and she shook her head.

"No," and she followed the lines of it with her fingertips. "It's perfect."

He stood up. "When will you marry me?"

Her head ducked and he could barely hear the words.

"Mary..." His lips met the top of her head.

"There's so much we still need to talk about."

"Yes," he replied. "But after we're married."

"Matthew..."

"Will you marry me?"

It came out a great, choking sob. "Of course!"

"Then when?" His lips were on her forehead, on her eyes, kissing away the tears on the tops of her cheeks.

"Now. Tomorrow. As soon as.." Her mouth came up to his and suddenly what she had said was more true than it had ever been before. Nothing mattered except this, the taste of him as he kissed her, drank her in, his tongue finding hers, a deep, guttural groan vibrating against her as he grasped her waist and pulled her flush against him.

They had never been physical beings to one another. Theirs had been a courtship in an entirely different time, of rare moments alone and social constraints, their kisses and embraces brief and unsatisfying. Oh, she had felt desire when she kissed him then, knew he did as well, but it was a shadow compared to this insane flood of need coursing through her, the fierceness of his grip, the already shuddering breaths that made her dizzy. It was so strong that when he stopped, she swayed against him, as weak on her feet as he seemed to be, her hands bracing on his shoulders as his lips brushed first across her cheek, then her forehead.

"We don't have to... not tonight... if you... " he began.

She kissed the tiny hollow just under his ear, her mouth open, the heat between them burning up the last shreds of doubt, the last vestiges of self-protection. There was so much to talk about, so many decisions, but she knew at this moment that the most important one had already been made. "Speak for yourself," she breathed against his ear, and his arms tightened around her.

"I want to carry you upstairs," he whispered. "I'm not sure I can walk."

"If you're suggesting something in this room, there is a butler probably standing twenty feet away and a ladies' maid thirty feet away." She unwound herself slowly from his arms, her hand taking his. "Let's at least try to make it upstairs and out of these clothes like civilized creatures."

He grinned at her and her heart contracted, making her dizzy all over again. "So we're to be undressed by other people?"

"Well, I like this dress," she murmured. "It's not easy to take off."

"I'm sure I could figure it out," he muttered, his lips biting softly at her jaw.

"I'm sure you could," and she tilted her head to give him better access. "I don't want you to be that polite."

* * *

><p>It was like having chaperones, the shadow of two servants at a discreet distance preventing either of them from behaving as they would wish. Matthew wanted nothing more than to tear that dress from her as they walked up the stairs, and Mary's fingers itched to rip off his dinner jacket and black tie. They parted at the top of the stairs, Anna and Campbell at their respective doors. "I'll come to you," Mary whispered. "She'll tell me when Campbell leaves, and she's much harder to shock."<p>

She could not look back at him as she walked to her room, her eyes instead fixed on Anna, whose face was far too knowing, whose mouth was twitching at an alarming rate. As she passed Anna, her voice, a tight whisper, reached her maid's ears.

"If you smile, I will sack you."

And Anna knew she didn't mean it, but she did not smile, not until after she was inside the room and the door was shut, not until after she had lifted the black silk from her mistress's slim frame, put her in the most gossamer of nightgowns, and begun to braid her hair, at which point Mary put up her hand to stop her. "Leave it," she whispered, and Anna couldn't help herself, and the two women, who had seen far too much pain together, simply grinned at each other in the mirror, and Mary's hand dropped on Anna's. "Oh, Anna," Mary said softly. "How do we make you happy?"

"Who says I'm not?" she replied. She went to the door and peered out, and nodded. "He's gone."

"How do you know?"

Anna's delicately raised eyebrow made her laugh. "Fine. I won't ask. Thank you, Smith."

"You're welcome." Anna curtseyed and slipped into the hall, matching Campbell stride for stride.

It took three tries for her to walk across the hall, and by the time she finally opened his door and walked inside, she could hear the clock downstairs strike twelve. It was dark, save for the flicker of the fire in the study, the flames thrusting shadows into the room, and she could see him seated in front of that fire, and the heady need that had nearly knocked her out before was now almost unmanageable. "Matthew," she whispered.

He was asleep, looking so much like Lily sleeping that she nearly laughed out loud. "Matthew," she whispered again, not daring to touch him. A flash of memory from childhood, being told she mustn't touch her father when he was asleep after he returned from South Africa because it would startle him, stayed her hand. But Matthew did not move, his breaths slow and regular, his head propped against the side of the old wing chair.

So she wrapped her shawl around herself a little tighter and curled up on the tiger skin rug, much as she had done night after night when she could not sleep, the head as a pillow as she stared up at his beautiful face.

There was still so much to decide. Where would they live? Here, in another man's house? She was not sure Matthew could or would want to do that. She did not want to leave London, and she did not want to leave the life she'd made for herself. Would he accept that? Or would he think he should support his wife and child? Children... and the thought made her smile. They had a lot to talk about, she thought as the warm crackle of the flames made her eyes drift shut, and she hoped he wouldn't sleep too long. They had time, but she did not want this incredible day and night to end without being in his bed.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thank you all again for your wonderful reviews, for alerting this story, and for indulging me in my own AU world. If only I had custody of these two... Anyway, it gets a fraction naughtier here._

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 6?**

He awoke with a start, his dream full of German phrases and a dark-haired wraith running just ahead of him who would not turn around when he called her _liebchen._ He had dreamed it before a hundred times, but he had always awakened to German nurses, alien voices, and a house in which he felt nothing but terror. "_Wo bin ich?_" he whispered as his eyes opened, the same three words he always said to cover his tracks, but this time he truly did not know where he was.

For a moment, it was still a dream, an entirely new one, familiar and yet so strange. His chair, in front of a fireplace he did not know. His desk, in front of a window with a view he could not identify. The most extraordinary vision of all was asleep on the vast tiger skin rug, an _odalisque _wrapped in palest silk, the tumble of hair like the wraith's in his dream, the crimson lips parted, and the sight of that face brought him fully into the present. He was safe, he was in England, and he was with Mary, who presumably had come in to find him asleep, a blunder he would have to make up to her. He had never seen her hair loose, never seen her face in sleep, never seen that curve of her hip or her breast in repose, and the images, like paintings, were already burning themselves onto his heart, the clutch of desire winding its way up his body. His Mary, for she would finally be his, was there, inches away, and yet something held him back from breaking that spell.

Whenever he had allowed himself to think of a life back home, it was life as he had imagined it four, five, even six years ago, married to Mary, living at Crawley House, awaiting the day when he would become the Earl. There would be children, she would do the sorts of things a Lady Mary would do, he would do the sorts of things an earl-in-waiting would do, perhaps practice law for a while longer, and then they would grow old together at Downton Abbey. It was an innocent sort of world and it was never to be for them, and would never be again. He already knew his would never be a leisurely life, not with the new costs of keeping up such an estate, no matter how long he had to wait to inherit it. As it had fallen to Mary to help save it, so now it fell to him. Mary was a fully independent woman, with a life and work of her own here in London, something he felt fairly sure she would not want to give up, and as his eyes raked over her lithe form, his breath coming a little faster, he was not sure he wanted the Mary of his long-ago dream. In less than a day, he had learned more about what she was capable of than in the previous six years and his heart clenched in joy as he realized he wanted _this_ Mary, the one who had protected his mother and his child as fiercely as the animal upon whose skin she rested might have, the one who could find her way forward no matter the obstacle, the one who had preserved his legacy not just for him, but for herself as well, and he was grateful beyond words or deeds for it and for her. It still made him as sad as it always did that she should again be put aside in favor of a male heir, yet the fact that she had been the one to make that decision in the breaking of the entail eased the pain slightly. He wondered if he could be quite literal about the marriage vows and simply endow her with Downton, a thought that made him laugh aloud, and the sound made her stir. There were things that would have to be agreed upon, and difficult decisions to make, but two things were quite certain. They were going to be married, sooner rather than later, and he needed to find a job. _Three things, _he amended, as he eased his right foot out of the slipper and gently ran it up her leg.

Mary awoke to the sensation of warm skin against hers, a slow stroke of her lower leg that made her shiver in anticipation, her back arching like a cat's as she looked up at Matthew, his eyes an unholy blue as the corners of his mouth twitched up. "We are pathetic," he whispered. "Really, Lady Mary. Falling asleep?"

"Dreadful manners, Mr. Crawley." Her voice was sleep-rough and languid, and the smile on her face was the naughtiest thing he'd ever seen. He reached for her hand, and as she knelt up, her fingers reached for the knot at his waist and her lips brushed against his ear. "But then again, I did tell you earlier... ah."

"What? He had already managed to push aside her dressing gown, and his mouth was on her collarbone, licking the hollow atop it, and she arched against him as she whispered again.

"Don't be polite."

She hadn't _meant_ that as license to destroy things, but the sound of ripping silk followed by a temporary blindness as he pulled the remnants of her gown over her head wasn't entirely unwelcome, the animalistic groan that erupted from him as his eyes drank in the sight of her skin, her breasts, her entire body serving only to pull a groan from her own lips. She tore at the charcoal velvet sash, her other hand at the buttons at his throat, her mouth following her fingers as he managed to pull himself free, his breath stopping as she undid the tape bow that held him in, his pajamas falling open.

And she crawled up and into his lap, her mouth finding his as she pressed every inch of herself against him, heated skin on skin as they held each other, tighter and tighter, lips, tongues, and teeth crashing as they had never done before, not with each other, not with anyone. Her head rolled back and he pushed forward, all his weight on his one good leg as he lowered their half-locked bodies to the rug, shedding the last of his clothing. Mary's arms fell above her head, and he drank in the vision of her skin lit by firelight, shadows marking her as he stroked her from neck to hip, possessively, reveling in the undulation of her body as he let his hand linger at the core of _her, _flicking against the swelling flesh, quick-slow, quick-slow, watching as a light sheen of sweat broke out across her, a shimmer lit by flames.

Her hands flailed and she clutched at the head of the great tiger as she watched Matthew, _her_ Matthew touch her in ways she had only heard about, his lips following his fingers, and she fought to keep her eyes open, to watch his face, his eyes, to remember this moment that was coming too fast, and not fast enough. She could wait no longer. "Matthew..."

And he wrapped his arm under her hips, and she thrust against him at the first touch, enveloping him completely, and as her eyes, glittering and dark, met his, he realized with a fierce thrill that her need was as raw as his own. "Mary," he whispered.

And it became madness, an unearthly joining of breaths and bodies, of lips and skin, of voices raised in primitive longing, of two minds alike in love, seeking what they had never known together before this moment, the six years of need and desire, of loss and pain all leading to this reckless, relentless crashing into each other, hearts beating faster and faster until she froze, the cry silenced and she broke, her body throbbing, a vise that pulled him over the edge with her. Eyes open, they could see nothing but each other's faces, the last flames of the fire burning the images into their minds, of wonderment and love, of tears and smiles, and slowly they melted into each other, twined so that it was impossible to find space between them and their eyes closed.

* * *

><p>The room was dark, lit only by a trace of moonlight, the fire all but out when he finally spoke. "Are you cold?"<p>

"You tell me," Mary murmured, and he laughed. Her lips dragged across his cheek and she placed tiny kisses around his eyes. "If you're asking me if I'd rather be in bed, the answer is yes."

"All right," he said softly. He did not move.

She smiled, her hands ruffling his hair. "Matthew?"

"Mmm-hmm," he whispered, and this time she laughed.

"Matthew."

"Mm?"

"Will you at least wait until we're in bed to fall asleep again?"

He rolled off her with a groan, which only made her laugh harder and he stood up, holding out his right hand as he took hold of his cane in his left. She rose to meet him, the chill in the air causing her to shiver. "Come on, then," she said.

But instead of walking with her, he ducked down and before she knew it, she was flung over his shoulder. "Matthew!"

"Don't move," he muttered. "I don't want to drop you."

"What are you doing?" Her head twisted up to try and see him, but she could only see the side of his face.

"Shh," he said, lips brushing her thigh.

She kept still, her hands balancing against his lower back, trying not to giggle as he limped slowly toward the wide bed. "Lunatic," she said, softly, and she could feel him grin against her leg. She was ridiculously glad they hadn't worried a shred about propriety, hadn't waited until after the wedding for this.

For years, she had thought about what he would be like, what this would be like with him and nothing she had ever imagined could have lived up to this glorious _realness_ of him, the passion that made her blush as he put her down on the bed, gently, kissing his way up, his lips locking on her breast for a moment as he climbed up and over her. Her eyes opened to see him grinning, and it was that other part of her love for him, the easiness, the comfort she felt, the absolute certainty that there was no one else she belonged with. She had been shy before, wary of her own desires, but not with him. "Matthew," she began. "How about _in_ rather than _on_?" His brows shot up. "I'm talking about the bed."

And they laughed together as they tore their way into the softness of the bed, feet fighting to get closest to the hot water bottle, winding their arms around each other as they sank back in the pillows and he let out a long, sweet sigh as he kissed the top of her head and she tucked her cheek against his chin.

She was nearly asleep when she felt him shaking, and realized her face was wet. "Matthew," she breathed, and reached for the light.

"Don't," he hissed, but it clicked on and her heart sank as he hid his eyes, but he could not hide the streaks down his face. She kissed the salt away, kissed his hand, the top of his head, shifting her body so she was over him and his arms came up and around her and held her again. He let her kiss his eyes, his chin trembling.

"So much," she whispered, and he nodded.

"So, so much," he replied, his eyes still shut against the light.

She traced his forehead, noting a thin scar by the hairline, and she marked it with her mouth. His cheek was a wreck of reddened, twisted skin that twitched as she stroked and kissed it. Two small, silvered cuts on his neck, just above the collarbone were next, and she sat up and began searching his chest.

"What are you doing?" he muttered.

"Hush," she said. "Inventory."

"Are you counting them?"

"No. I'm checking the condition of the delivery." He smiled a little, a gift in this moment, and she continued her search on his arm, noting the small burns and scuffs that had once hurt him, and feeling a wrench inside at the idea of him in pain.

"Very businesslike of you." He took hold of her roaming hand and held it to his good cheek. "Tell me what you do. I only know about the newspapers."

"Well, it's mostly the newspapers, but there's quite a bit of property income. Leases, rents, whatnot. I have people who handle most of the day-to-day of everything, but I do get involved." She pulled his hand close and felt the rough patches on his palm, kissing them gently.

"Do you like it?"

The grin on her face was extraordinary. "Yes."

"So we're to be a working couple?"

Her mouth lingered at the base of his thumb. "You're going back to practicing law?"

"There's not much else I'm good at, I'm afraid."

She went quite still, and he watched her face as he spoke. "I'm meeting with some old friends tomorrow at the club to see what's going on here. I couldn't very well ask you to go to Ripon or Manchester, could I?"'

She had to hide her eyes, and it was his turn to kiss her, cradle her head again in the crook of his neck, stroke her back as the tears came, and almost without movement he was inside her again, and her voice was in his ear whispering the same three words over and over, a benediction, a blessing as his own voice cried out in joy.

* * *

><p>Matthew awoke alone, the wildly rumpled bed the only evidence he had not spent the night by himself, and for the first time in six months he did not think or speak in German as he opened his eyes. He was thoroughly calm, the strain of remembering a past that was not his all but gone, and the aftereffects of love were still spinning through him. He wished that propriety had not determined she would leave him just before dawn, just after they took possession of each other for a third time, in neither reckless abandon nor tearful joy, but in near total silence, their mutual need understood without words. He smiled at the memory as he sat up and observed the rug in front of the fire, seeing without having seen the vision of two bodies locked in front of the fire, remembering the feel of her, the scent of her that was still there, her voice echoing in his ear one last time as she slipped away, wrapped only in her enormous flame-colored shawl, and the word <em>odalisque<em> once again skimmed across his brain.

He would have to remember not to call her that. Somehow, he thought, the publisher of three newspapers and the owner of some two dozen properties around London would not take kindly to being referred to as a harem slave, regardless of the fact that she looked like the enticing paintings of the same name.

* * *

><p>He looked like her boy again.<p>

Isobel could not quite believe that in twenty-four hours her son could have changed so much, but there he was in the dining room, in a dark suit, his military-short hair brushed perfectly, the deep frown line between his eyes smoothed out and relaxed. The fierce scar on his cheek and the limp notwithstanding, he looked much as he had before he'd gone off to war, munching on toast and reading the newspaper. He kept smiling, a secret sort of expression, and Isobel began to hope that her decision to go to bed early last night and leave them alone was the reason for that smile.

"What will you do today?" she asked.

"Going to the club for lunch," he replied. "I talked briefly to James Lavery yesterday and he said his firm needed someone in company law."

"From university? That James?"

He nodded. "So I'll probably see him, and perhaps some other people." He smiled again at her. "What about you?"

"Hospital board meeting," she said softly. The sheer normalcy of this, her son back at the breakfast table, talking of ordinary things as if the last four years had never happened now threatened to make her cry, and she did not want to break the spell, even as the door opened and her son's eyes, joyous in a way she had never seen before, flew to it.

It was Mary, not in black as she had been since the beginning of that year, but in softest pale blue, almost the color of Lily's eyes, and Lily was in her arms, babbling up at Mary. "Good morning," Mary said, and her eyes, filled with the same kind of joy, sought out Matthew. "Lily, say good morning to Papa."

Lily's baby voice did not stop as Matthew took her in his arms. "Good morning, darling," he whispered and thrilled at the sight of her grinning up at him, the "babababababa" unchecked. He kissed the blonde curls atop her head. "My little Goldilocks," he murmured and looked over at Mary, who was helping herself to toast and tea. "Good morning, my love."

Her cheeks were dark pink as she turned around, her hands shaking slightly as she put the plate and cup down on the table. "You might want to explain that to your mother," she whispered.

But it needed no explanation, and Isobel just smiled at them, her eyes swimming in tears. "I'm so glad," she said. "So glad."

* * *

><p>Matthew was glad his daughter seemed to like him now, but as he watched Mary with her, the pair seated on a blanket in front of the fire in the morning room, looking at a picture book together, Mary's soft voice telling her all about the animals, he realized that no one would ever take the place of Mary in Lily's baby heart. When Mary moved, his daughter's eyes moved with her. When Mary spoke, Lily hung on every word. It made him happier than he could have thought possible, and the idea of more children, their children, made his heart feel quite soft.<p>

"So when will you get married?" he heard his mother ask, and Mary looked to him.

"Soon," he said. "We haven't discussed where."

"We've been going to St. Peter's in Eaton Square," Isobel said. "If you're thinking of London for it."

Matthew's eyes stayed on Mary. "We were both married at Downton before," he said quietly. "Shouldn't we be married there?"

She looked away, her face suddenly shielded in that old way. Just then, Lily yawned, and Mary smiled at her drooping baby eyes. "Nap time," she whispered and picked up Lily as she stood. "Let's go find Nanny."

Isobel watched her son, watched him reach for Mary's hand and kiss it, watched Mary's lips meet his, briefly, sweetly, but he noticed her shakiness, noticed how she'd changed. As the door closed, he looked to his mother, the question already clear on his face.

"Matthew, she hasn't been there in six months."

"Six months," he repeated. "But surely now she'll want to see it?"

Isobel shook her head. "It's not Downton that upsets her. She hasn't spoken to her father since the day Lily was born."

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: So I've discovered that happy Matthew is harder to write now... Thank you all for your wonderful reviews and comments! _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 7?**

Matthew came back from the club late in the afternoon in a pensive mood, pleased at the possibilities offered him, but saddened by what had happened to so many friends, and he marked himself lucky that he had only a shattered leg and not a shattered mind. So many of the men he knew from school and from years of practicing law had come back from the war mere shells of themselves, brittle and sour. If they joked, the laugh did not reach their eyes. The ashes on cigarettes hung far too long, and the answers sometimes came too slowly. He knew he had his dark moments and would continue to, but... he shuddered. If he could do nothing else in his lifetime, it would be to ensure his own children never had to face this.

He found Mary in her study, reading, the pale afternoon light already waning and the lights on. She did not look up when he came in and he watched her for a moment, her dark head bent over the papers. A memory of her underneath him, writhing and warm, made him dizzy for a moment and he was suddenly glad of his stick. He was not sure he could wait until night, much less wait the weeks it took for the banns to be read, and he wondered if she might agree to a special license. Then again, he thought as she looked up, they needed to go to Downton. Everything needed to be settled there.

"Hello, dear," she said softly. "Did you have a nice lunch?"

He could only grin at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. "That's just a nice thing to hear when I come home."

Her breath caught and her eyes filled with tears, and he was quickly at her side, pulling her up into his arms. "My dear, what is it?"

"It's silly," she said. "But you just called this home."

"You're here. Mother's here. Lily's here. Of course it's home. Although," he paused. "I should pay rent, or the taxes, or something. Just to feel a little responsible for it, until you start eating me out of house and home at Downton."

And she laughed as she wound her arms around his neck. "I take it you've found a job," she said, in between kisses.

"As a matter of fact, I did. They need a company law expert at Lavery's firm, and since I did some consulting for him before the war, and I know what he really got up to at university, he's taking me on. I'll start next week." He kissed her, longingly. "So you needn't worry. You're not taking on a bounder, or a layabout. I shall pull my own weight, my lady."

"I wasn't worried about that," she said softly.

"Sit with me," he whispered back.

They were quiet for a long time in that large chair by the window, simply holding each other as they watched the sky darken.

"Granny telephoned," she said, softly, as the streetlights flickered on.

"There's a sentence I never expected to hear."

She laughed. "Well, after the usual stops and starts, she got straight to the point. Rather, Mamma got straight to the point after taking over the call. We've been invited for Christmas."

"Ah," he replied. "And?"

She didn't answer, her fingers toying with his tie.

"Why did you stop speaking to your father?"

She looked away. "You know why."

"I know what my mother said, and what I said to your father about it. What happened?" He tipped her chin toward him, gently, his fingers barely touching her.

"What did you say to my father?"

"That I wanted a full accounting from him of the treatment of my mother and my child following Lavinia's death. I understood the need to secure the succession, but I failed to see how that meant the people I loved wouldn't be looked after in some fashion. I also didn't understand why he felt you wouldn't be the best person to take on Downton." Her face darkened and he let her pull away again as a soft gong sounded.

"Time to dress," she said and started to stand up.

He pulled her back for a kiss. "This isn't settled."

"No," she said, sadly, and his heart broke for her a little. "It isn't." She stood up. "If you want to see Lily before she goes to sleep, now would be a good time to go up."

* * *

><p>He found his mother in the nursery, Lily all but asleep, yawning in her crib with the lights already lowered. She gave her father a drowsy smile and a little crow at his kiss, but her baby eyes couldn't stay open and she slept as he hummed to her.<p>

"Not even two days," he said. "And it's as if.." He did not finish.

"Yes," she said, understanding him perfectly.

They walked in tandem down the nursery staircase. "We've been invited for Christmas at Downton," he said.

"Yes, I know. I spoke to Violet."

"You spoke to Cousin Violet?"

She smiled. "It's amazing what a common cause can do for women of a certain age. How do you feel about it?"

"It's not how I feel, it's how Mary feels." He negotiated the landing and leaned against the wall for a moment, waving off her concern. "It's up to her."

"Violet's posted the banns."

"What?" He stopped again.

"Well, I assume she's done it, since she told Mary she was going to the church the very second the telephone call ended and that was some hours ago."

He didn't quite know what to say.

* * *

><p>He was not the first to come down to dinner, and as he walked into the drawing room, he was greeted by an armful of Sybil. "Thank God!" she said happily. "It is really you."<p>

He found that funny. "Who else did you expect?"

"No one, it's just... Ah, Campbell. Oh, well done, those look lovely!" She took one of the gleaming glasses from his tray, the orange liquid inside shimmering in the glow of the room.

"What is it?" Matthew lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed.

"Sidecar," she said. "To you. Being home."

"Cocktails?" He grinned. "Shouldn't we wait for your sister?"

"She'll be hours yet," Sybil took a sip.

"Will I?" Mary's voice suddenly made him think of Violet and he laughed aloud as he turned to see her. "Hello, darling," she said as she kissed Sybil's cheek. "I see you've commandeered poor Campbell. What is it tonight?"

"It's called a Sidecar. Cognac, Cointreau, and lemon. It's meant to warm you up if you're riding in a sidecar."

"Which of course, we've all been doing," Mary muttered dryly. "Cognac before dinner?"

Matthew laughed again.

"What's so funny?" Mary tasted it and smiled.

"Oh, no. You'll probably kill me."

"Unlikely, since I've just gotten you back." She put down the drink with a slight shake of her head at Sybil, who shrugged and continued drinking.

"You sound like Cousin Violet." He retreated behind Sybil at Mary's mock frown. "Did she really post the banns?"

"Mary!" Sybil nearly spilled her drink. "Matthew? Are you?"

"He seems to think so," Mary said. "I didn't suggest it. It was her idea."

"It's a wonderful idea. You can be married at Christmas! Oh, Mary!" She hugged her sister, who gave Matthew a wry look over her shoulder.

"It's up to Matthew," she said.

"No, Mary. It's your decision."

"What's Mary's decision?" Isobel greeted Sybil, cheerfully took a cocktail and smiled at the three of them.

"Granny's wedding scheme." Mary replied.

Isobel shrugged. "Well, it's quite tidy, isn't it?" She looked to Matthew. "A quiet church wedding with just the family, and an opportunity to clear the air. And I think you might want it done quickly." Her eyes met her son's over the top of the glass, and he had the grace to blush slightly at her look.

* * *

><p>Mary had been right. Debating Sybil was a full-time occupation at dinner, which he enjoyed tremendously, even if it left him a little exhausted by the time the pudding was finished. She had always been passionate, but now, just one term into university, she was incredibly well-informed and nuanced in her arguments. Then again, he thought, so was Mary, who had pointed out holes in several of Sybil's ideas.<p>

She was seated with his mother, laughing about something, and it made him happy to see the two women he loved best in the world so close. He turned back to Sybil, who was gleefully recalling a lecture on Malthus. "University suits you," he said.

"It's wonderful." Her eyes were shining. "If you'd told me four years ago this is what I'd be doing, I wouldn't have believed you. But now I can't imagine myself doing anything else."

"Are you sticking with politics?"

"I like economics, actually. We'll see." She looked over at Mary. "You must send Lily to school, she'll be so much better prepared than I ever was. Thank heaven for Papa and his Latin obsession, but my mathematics... " Her eyes rolled.

"Why did your father and Mary fall out so badly?"

Sybil's face fell. "Papa wants to fix it. Mary's just so..."

"Unforgiving?"

"No, Mary forgives. She doesn't forget, though. Ever. Edith can tell you that."

"But why was it so bad?"

Sybil glanced over at Mary and her voice dropped. "After it went through Parliament, he tried to apologize, and she wouldn't accept it. I think she took issue with the reasons Murray gave."

"What were they?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, that's Mary's story. Not mine. Back to Lily. You and I must stand firm on this. Whatever it takes, if you need me as your co-counsel on the case. A real school for Lily, no matter what."

He raised his glass and they toasted the agreement. "I'm not sure Mary will ever let her out of her sight. But we've got years yet to talk her into it."

"I'm so glad," Sybil grasped his arm. "I'm so sorry about Lavinia, but I'm glad you and Mary found each other again, and that Mary's been like a mother for Lily."

He smiled at her. "Thank you." He looked over at Mary, whose eyes met his and the smile on her face took his breath away. "But, you see, she isn't like a mother. Lily will know who Lavinia was. I shan't let her forget her, just as I won't. But Mary _is _Lily's mother."

"Is that why you're getting married?"

"No," he said. "I love Mary and I can't imagine my future without her."

"That simple?" she said wistfully.

"Love is anything but simple," he said. "Especially with Mary."

* * *

><p>They walked up the stairs as they had the night before, slowly, arm in arm, only this time it was not the unknown that pulsed around them, but rather the <em>known<em>, the need that had not stopped coursing through him all day, and from the way she caressed his cheek as he rested briefly on the landing, he could tell she felt the same way.

The upstairs hallway was as it was the night before, lights low, with Smith and Campbell at their respective posts, only as they crested the top step, Mary gave a barely perceptible nod and the two disappeared into the bedrooms, leaving Matthew and Mary alone. And it was as if this had been going on for years as he kissed her, as if every night for a dozen years they had dined together and walked upstairs together as husband and wife. "We need to remember to actually _get_ married," she whispered. "Because it feels like we already are."

He smiled against her mouth. "So what about marrying at Downton at Christmas? Just family?" She didn't answer, and he continued. "The other option is St. Peter's, of course, but we've only got three weeks before Christmas, and Cousin Violet's paved the way for us with the banns. Either way, we're unmarried by the time we get to Downton. Unless..."

"A special license?" She did not look at him.

"My family is here," he said quietly. "I just don't want you to regret anything." Her head tipped into his chest and he pulled her even closer. "Mary, do you think you can ever fix things with your father?"

It was a full minute before she could calm her voice enough to answer. "Even in the face of having to hand over his estate to a another total stranger, he still didn't think I should have it, still didn't think it could be done. It only took three months." She paused, her voice cracking again. "Three months, and no one even batted an eyelash in Parliament, and if you think for one minute it was because of my connections now, my solicitors had so many plans for so many contingencies, and it turned out they didn't need any of them. They hadn't yet found a living descendant, I'd been asked to pay the taxes, and just like that, the whole thing was done. And I couldn't speak to him again after that, because..." She tucked her head against his shoulder so he could not see her eyes. "The argument Murray made on behalf of my father was that the entail should remain in place because a childless widow was a worse option. God knows who she would marry and then where would the estate be? Or if she didn't marry? I wasn't a publisher, a property owner, an independent person to them. I was just... a woman who couldn't be trusted." She sucked in a half-sob, and his arms tightened around her.

"Mary," he said softly. "Do you really believe your father thinks that?"

"It doesn't matter," she replied. "Now you're home, and all is as it should be in Lord Grantham's eyes, and I suppose Granny's right. We're family and we don't have to like each other, but we should at least be on speaking terms."

"It does matter." He stroked her cheeks, kissed her eyes, her cheek, her lips, lingeringly, breathing her in for a moment. "My dear, he's hurt you terribly, but I think you need to hear each other out."

"Why?" She rested her forehead against his for a moment.

"Because," he said slowly. "I've only known my daughter for two days and even thinking there might come a time when she wouldn't speak to me rips me to pieces."

He could not tell if it was a sob or a laugh that broke from her. "You are a good lawyer. Downton it is, then." She kissed him again. "Come to me tonight?"

* * *

><p>Now, nearly three weeks later, as the train sped north to Downton, Matthew could tell she was still uncertain. She was as jumpy as a cat after two days of being unusually quiet and distracted, as distinctly unlike herself as anything Matthew had seen. His mother was watching her like a hawk, seemingly as worried about her state of mind as he was.<p>

They were all in the first class compartment together, a tight fit, but Mary had refused to allow any of their party to travel in open cars with other passengers, citing the Spanish flu. His new valet Armstrong had gone ahead to take care of the heavy luggage, leaving them with Anna.. Smith, he would have to remember to call her.. the nanny, his mother, and Sybil, who was entertaining Lily merely by being Sybil and telling her about Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_. Mary was staring out the window, her face shifting constantly in thought, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and smooth away the worry from her eyes.

They would marry in a week, the Monday after Christmas, and he was not sure how he would stand being physically apart from her until then. He had thought the passion would cool after the first blinding days, but it had only intensified, burning them up night and day, as they shocked each other more and more with their mutual lack of concern about propriety. He found it impossible not to touch her whenever she walked by, and she found every excuse she could to drop a kiss on him. Twice they had been caught by Anna in her bedroom, and he was certain his mother was perfectly aware of their behavior, which should have disturbed him more than it did. Initially he believed it was the nearly six years of unrealized desire, coupled with the long stretch of abstinence they'd both known, but now he knew it was far deeper than that. She was embedded in him in some way, and he was a part of her, and something just wasn't right if they weren't together.

It had been a whirlwind three weeks, with wedding plans, work, which he was enjoying immensely, and Christmas shopping, which he did not enjoy quite as much. He had agonized over a perfect present for Mary, and the last place he expected to find it was at his club, but there it was, and now, after days of his mother helping to smuggle the perpetrator in and out of the nursery while Mary was out, it was finished and with the rest of the presents in the heavy luggage already at Downton. He could not wait to see her face when she opened it.

There were two cars waiting for them when they arrived, one for the luggage and servants, driven by a man neither Matthew nor Mary knew, and the other for them, driven by Edith.

"You should have a little uniform," Mary remarked as she kissed her sister's cheek.

"Oh, stop," Edith said companionably. "Come on then. They're not waiting outside today. It's too cold."

Carson was beside himself, or as beside himself as a butler of his great experience and standing could be when he laid eyes on Mary, who had done the unexpected and carried in Lily herself. "M'lady," came out with a little choke, and Mary's own eyes were a little wet. "Mrs. Crawley. Mr. Crawley. They're in the library."

"Thank you, Carson," she murmured, and let him lead the way.

Matthew watched as her shoulders tightened and he took her arm. "Ready?" he asked.

"No," she said. "But I won't ever be."

There was a great hubbub as they entered, with Cora's ebullient hello and hug, and Violet moving at shocking speed to kiss first Mary's cheek, then pat Matthew's arm in unabashed affection. "Welcome home, my boy," she said, surprising no one save Matthew, who was at a loss for words. "And hello, little one." Her hand stroked Lily's cheek, who responded with a dazzling smile. "The Crawley blue eyes. Look, Cora."

"Good trip, darling?" Cora murmured as she greeted her daughter. "You look so tired. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Her tone was slightly sharp, and Cora and Violet both looked at her with some concern. "Truly."

"My dear chap." Lord Grantham's voice rang out across the library. "Welcome home."

He could not help but be warmed a little by the man's enthusiasm, as angry as he was about what had happened while he was gone. Robert looked thinner, older, and as he shook Matthew's hand, a slight grimace of pain crossed his face. At first, Matthew thought it might be some illness or injury, but then Robert's shoulders tightened, exactly as his daughter's had, and he turned to face her.

"Welcome home, Mary."

In twenty days and nights with Mary, Matthew had seen the businesswoman, the lover, the mother, and the sister, but he had not seen this Mary and he had all but forgotten she existed. Her eyes, which only this morning were warm with love and desire as she curled up in his arms, were hard. No sweet smile softened the iron clench of her jaw. Disdain, fury, and coldness all swirled around her as she regarded her father. She spoke but three words, and to all present, it was perfectly clear she did not mean them.

"You're very kind," was all she said.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful notes of encouragement and reviews! Work, family, and an injury that seriously hindered typing (see my twitter feed for the picture) all seemed to have slowed down the muse. Back, more or less. Standard disclaimer applies - these characters are the property of Carnival & Julian Fellowes. No infringement intended. Just enjoy borrowing them for fun once in a while. _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 8?**

Mary's cold mood shifted into unease and it did not end after the luncheon, especially after she saw Matthew and her father go into the library. She did not want to be in earshot, knowing full well what Matthew was likely to say, and she followed her mother, grandmother, and sisters into the drawing room, which was not going to be much better, if the look on her mother's face was any indication.

"Cora," her grandmother said warningly, even before her daughter-in-law had drawn breath.

"It's all right, Granny," Mary said with a sigh. "I'm going to speak to him. There's no point in making Christmas miserable for everyone else just because my own father thinks a woman can't be trusted."

"Mary!"

"It's true, Mamma." Mary declined the tea, and leaned back in the low chair. "If you think there was any other reason for this..." She held up her hand. "But I'm not here to ruin Christmas."

"Mary, promise me you'll at least hear him out."

"Of course I'll hear him out. I'd love to know his reasons for thinking I couldn't possibly figure out how to run Downton. Sybil, tell everyone about your exams. Mamma, I think you'll be thrilled to know she's no longer interested in politics. You've raised an economist." She grinned and let _that_ be what her mother worried about for a bit as she noticed Isobel watching her, with the same curious look she'd had for three days.

* * *

><p>It was some time before Matthew came in alone, his face thoughtful, but not angry, and he smiled ruefully at Mary as he leaned down. "I would wait until tomorrow," he whispered. "I don't think he can take two of us in one day."<p>

"How was it?" she murmured back as she watched her mother make excuses and leave.

"About as I expected," he said. "Nobody behaved as they should, he apologized profusely, and I've forgiven him."

"You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din," she replied and he smiled. "I'm going up to see how Lily's settling in. Will you join me? I can show you where they've put you. It's called the Grey Room."

"It sounds lovely." He took her arm.

"It was my husband's room," Violet sighed. "The bed is the loveliest in the house."

Mary watched Matthew's face go slightly ashen. She could only imagine what he was thinking and she was thoroughly enjoying watching him think it.

* * *

><p>"I notice you still haven't gotten Perseus back," he said as they came back down the nursery stairs. They'd read to Lily, although Mary had been unable to find the book she wanted, which made her peevish.<p>

"I have lost him to Lily," she replied. "Which is perfectly all right. I trust her. Ah," she said and stopped. "These are your rooms." She kissed him rather chastely on the cheek. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Where is your room?" he asked with a grin. "In case I have a midnight.."

She blanched and involuntarily stepped back. "Mary?" He reached for her and she twisted away from him, her shoulders shaking as she put a hand on the wall to support herself. "My dear, what..." And suddenly he realized what he'd asked, what memory he'd brought back. "Oh God, Mary," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'd forgotten."

The sound that came from her was neither a laugh nor a sob, but something in between, and she turned toward him. His arms came around her, pulling her close as she tucked her face into his neck and he cursed himself for bringing this on. She'd told him far more about that night in just that look on her face than she had ever told him before.

They stood there for minutes, like statues, until he felt her mouth flicker against his neck, and heard her voice. "What?" he asked, but she had already moved, her hand taking his, leading him down the hallway, past the staircase, and around another corner where she pushed him into a red room and shut the door. "Mary," he started, but she shook her head and pulled his face down to hers.

"This is my room," she murmured against his lips. "And it's high time something else happened here."

* * *

><p>She should have known when Lady Mary didn't ring after the dressing gong. It had happened twice before, after all, but she was too distracted by the goings-on downstairs and she had opened the door before she'd thought. They didn't notice, and for that she was glad, since the last two times were embarrassing enough, and they were fully clothed for those. This time, they weren't, and for a few brief seconds, before she closed the door as silently as she'd opened it, Anna saw everything in that mirror, as if it was a painting, like the ones in London museums she'd visited on her days off, the unforgettable image of two bodies entwined, her mistress's head flung back in ecstasy, Major Crawley's lips on her breast as he thrust against her.<br>It shouldn't have affected her as it did, but tears pricked at the back of Anna's eyes as she walked back down the corridor and she ducked her head so no one should see. That Lady Mary was happy again did please her, but in thinking on her own future, and to what had transpired in the time since she'd left, she found herself unspeakably sad. She was so focused on not crying that she did not see the wall that loomed in front of her, the wall that put out a hand to stop her.

"Miss Smith?"

She looked up to see Mr. Armstrong, the new valet, or rather, she looked up to see his suit buttons. Mr. Armstrong was possibly the tallest person she'd ever laid eyes on, six-five at least, more than a foot taller than she was. "I take it they're at it again," he said quietly.

She was ready to snap back a reply, but the soft smile on his face stopped her. "I'm going back down to wait for her to ring."

"May I join you?" he asked.

She nodded. She'd known him for only ten days, knew only that he'd been a sergeant, decorated for valor at the Somme, and a footman before that, but she liked his easy manners, liked how he'd slid into the workings of the London house without the slightest fuss, and liked that he was a little in awe of Lady Mary. "Where were you before the war?" she asked as they descended.

"Beaufort Castle. With the Frasers," he said. "Head footman. My father was gamekeeper."

"Were you there when the shooting happened?"

"I wasn't working yet. That was around 1905. But I knew one of the men who was hit. Nasty business."

"Americans," she whispered, and he laughed. "So you're good with guns as well?" They stopped outside the servants hall, the bell board in earshot.

"And horses, and motors. And houses," he said with a smile. "Why else do you think I took the job as valet to a Major Crawley, besides the fact I think him an intelligent and honorable man?"

"So Mr. Carson and Mr. Campbell need to watch out?" she asked.

"I'm not afraid to be ambitious," he said quietly. "Campbell's a London man. I can't see him ever leaving. Mr. Carson will likely retire gracefully and I want to be ready to step in."

She nodded. "He's quite fond of Lady Mary, is our Mr. Carson. You'll want to stay on the right side of him, even if you are thinking of taking his job."

"Don't worry. I'll watch myself," he replied. "It's funny what people think. Here, the maids told me Lady Mary's a cold one, but I don't see it. She seems a good and fair employer. Nobody up at London sees her as anything but kind."

"She's very kind. The best, but she's careful. She takes her time in trusting people."

"What's your ambition? Mrs. Hughes' job? Or stay as ladies' maid?"

She raised her eyebrow.

"Ah," he said. "You as well. Point taken." A bell chimed and they looked up to see that it was Lady Mary's, followed only seconds later by the bell from Major Crawley's. "Good God," he whispered. "The man must have sprinted. I'll see you during dinner?"

She nodded.

"I noticed you don't talk to Mr. Bates."

She didn't answer.

"Shame," he continued. "He's a good man, I think."

* * *

><p>Matthew didn't know if it was the idea of someone else touching Mary or that they were in the place where he'd dreamed of loving her so many years ago, or if it was merely the fact they'd had to behave all day, but whatever it was had awakened something even more primal in him and it wasn't just love and raw-edged desire he'd felt as she took him to her bed, but a physical, aching need to protect her, to surround her with himself so nothing could harm her. He sank into the bath, grateful Armstrong had thought to run it just before the gong and told himself he'd have to behave tonight, since he knew full well he'd have absolutely no chance of sneaking down that hallway anytime after dinner.<p>

Dinner. He hoped Mary would be in the same relatively calm frame of mind and would not invite a fight just yet. His conversation with Robert had gone almost exactly as expected, save for one thing, and he hoped Mary would hear her father out. It had affected Matthew deeply, and he felt it would be the balm on the wounds that had been left open far too long.

* * *

><p>She wanted nothing more than to get back in her bath, the unease now returning. She had been euphoric after Matthew left her, cleansed in a way of a terrible memory that had affected her far more deeply than she realized, replaced by a new memory of Matthew's glittering eyes, tender mouth, and words so loving and intimate she blushed to think of them. Dinner did not seem such a terrible thing to face after that but now, with the scent of him gone and Anna's soft hands beginning their quick work on her hair, she was not so sure.<p>

"It'll be all right, m'lady," Anna said, as if reading her mind.

"If I can keep my temper." Mary's own hands rifled through the rings in her case. "And we all know how that usually goes."

Anna did not reply, but the smile on her face made Mary relax. "How is Mr. Armstrong settling in?"

"Very well, I believe." Anna twined the last strand into place and stepped back to assess it. "He seems to be a little overqualified, though."

Mary grinned. "I think that's precisely why Major Crawley chose him." She looked at herself and nodded. "Perfect as always. Thank you."

Anna nodded back, the barest bob of a curtsy in the gesture.

"How is it downstairs?" Mary's eyes met Anna's.

"It's fine."

"If I'd known he was back, I would have..."

Anna interrupted her. "M'lady, it's fine. It was a long time ago." Her mouth set in a line that Mary knew all too well. Mary held her gaze, as if to give permission to break, but Anna held firm, and Mary finally sighed. "All right."

"Will you be needing me later tonight, m'lady?"

"Yes." But her cheeks turned pink, and Anna had to turn away or she'd laugh and she was quite sure it was the last thing Lady Mary needed.

* * *

><p>It was disorienting, to say the least, to be sitting in this room, in exactly the same spot where she'd tossed poisonous barbs at him six years ago and to see him exactly where he'd been before, only now, instead of that defensive, uncomfortable blond boy, he was confident, calm, a lean and scarred soldier. He seemed taller, if that was possible, and he took her breath away. He was <em>Matthew. <em>He belonged here, next to her, in this house, at this table, he was _perfect _somehow and she wondered at her former self, the bullying child blinded by snobbish jealousy and anger, who did not even imagine the love she would one day feel and know for and from this man. His eyes flicked to hers as he finished his pudding and she grinned helplessly at him.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Sea monsters," she said. "I was so horrible to you."

"I was a prig. We'll call it a draw." His gaze softened and he reached for her hand and grasped it, not caring who saw.

Violet saw everything.

Her grandchild, her favorite grandchild if she was to be perfectly honest, was unabashedly holding hands with the next Earl of Grantham, and the world seemed right again. They were ignorant of the fact they'd become the star attraction at the dinner table, with everyone darting looks at them, but it was the look on Robert's face that affected Violet the most, the flash of pure joy at the sight of his daughter and future son-in-law smiling at each other, the flash that disappeared as soon as he noticed she was watching him.

"I think we'll go through," she heard her daughter-in-law saying, and as everyone stood, Violet found herself speaking aloud what she was thinking, surprising even herself.

"Cousin Matthew, why don't you come through with us and let Mary and Robert have their talk?"

* * *

><p>Mary stared at the glass of port placed in front of her, feeling slightly sick. Her father had been silent since the rest of the family had left the room at her grandmother's suggestion, preparing his cigar, sipping at his port, and waiting for Carson to leave them. She had a sneaking suspicion Carson was as curious as the rest of the family as to what was about to transpire, and she did not doubt at least two servants were listening somewhere, and would not put it past Granny to be crouched at the dining room door keyhole. Despite all his efforts to delay, Carson finally walked out, and for the first time in six months, Lady Mary Crawley and the Earl of Grantham were alone in a room together.<p>

* * *

><p>No one spoke in the drawing room. Sybil attempted to start a conversation about Malthus, but the look on her grandmother's face stopped her almost instantly. They could not hear anything, but it did not stop them from trying, with first Matthew, then Cora and Edith, and then even Violet crowding around the door left half-open by Carson as he entered, ears straining, listening for any sound coming from the dining room. Only Sybil refused to eavesdrop on her sister, choosing instead to silently debate herself on everything that was wrong with Malthus' position on poverty.<p>

* * *

><p>She'd had this fight a thousand times in her own head since that day, and she'd prepared herself for the bitterness of six months ago, yet now, sitting at last with her father, who seemed older, thinner, and so much sadder, every way she'd thought to start this seemed cruel, especially considering her own state of mind. "Papa," she finally began, but he shook his head.<p>

"Mary, before you say anything, please let me say something." She nodded, and he continued. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being so callous about Matthew's child, I'm sorry for allowing Murray to make a public case against you, particularly that case, and I'm sorry for thinking you shouldn't inherit. I was wrong. I was wrong about all of it from the very beginning. I will never be anything but sorry for it, and if you are still unable to forgive me, I can understand, but I want you to know..." He paused, his eyes wet, and her heart unexpectedly wrenched in her chest. "Mary, when you walked back into this house with Matthew, when I saw you with him today, when I saw him with you... Mary, whatever was broken inside you isn't broken any more. And if we are not to be at peace, know that I am at peace because I know you're happy."

She had expected an apology, but not one like that. "Broken?" she whispered.

"You haven't been yourself since Matthew married Lavinia."

Mary went cold at the memory of that day, of the yawning ache inside her heart that entire ceremony, of how her face hurt from smiling, how she had taken Richard into a quiet corner of the library that evening and allowed him liberties she had not allowed before in an attempt to feel something, to feel anything.

"I watched you at the church that day and something changed inside you. And somehow you held it all together when you married Richard, when you moved to London, and then when he died, you kept going. You took on his businesses, you took on caring for Sybil and then when we thought Matthew died, and we lost Lavinia the next day... Mary, neither of us could have been in our right mind when we fought. And I should have seen that. I should have trusted you and I should have helped you."

She was silent, staring at her hands absently folding and unfolding in front of her.

"Of course, Matthew never was in his right mind, before or after your wedding, or his own for that matter."

Her head shot up at that. "Papa..."

"Oh, my darling girl," Robert said. "He looked at you before he looked at Lavinia coming down the aisle. Everyone saw it. Everyone knew what you two felt for each other, except apparently the two of you. It broke my heart, your grandmother's heart, your mother's, Isobel's... all of us. But you both were so bullheaded, so determined to move on, and with the war..." He tapped the ash from his cigar. "It's no good dwelling on that, especially now. I'm not happy about what happened to either Richard or Lavinia, but..." His voice trailed off and he took another drink. "After it all went wrong, you stood in front of me and told me what to do. You were so sure of yourself, and I was terrified, Mary, terrified all I had planned had disappeared, numb at the loss of my son, and I should have seen it, should have seen that you lost as much as I did, more even. We should have helped each other. And yes, Matthew is my son, but don't think that means he ever replaced you in any way."

"I don't," she said softly. "Not anymore. I know what you mean." She took a long breath. "Papa, when Patrick died and you refused to break the entail in my favor, it was bad enough, but after we all thought Matthew was gone... Papa, I'd been managing Richard's newspapers and properties for six months. How could you still believe I couldn't handle it?"

"I wish I knew, Mary. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I should have trusted you. I would trust you now. I do trust you. It's all I can say."

She started to speak, but her entire mood had shifted, the old anger gone, replaced by a peace that could not be shaken. He was right. It was all he could say. He couldn't take it back, couldn't change the past. No one could. There was only forward. She knew it, Matthew knew it, and now, looking at her father's face, heartbroken yet hopeful, she was suddenly certain that there was only one path forward, and the first step was up to her. "Papa, I can't forget that your first instinct was that I couldn't be trusted with Downton. I can't forget what was said about me in your name, in the name of the Grantham estate."

"I fired Murray, you know."

"I would have fired him too, after he failed to win." His eyes darkened at the dig, but she held up her hand. "Papa, your son's home. All is as it should be, and in a week, we'll be married. It's never been in my nature to forgive, and I can't forget what happened, but..." and she choked back tears. "You're right. I'm happy. We're happy... oh, God, Papa, I've never been happy like this." She took his hand and smiled at him, watching as the weight fell from him and he burst into tears.

* * *

><p>They'd given up trying to hear in the drawing room when the shutting of a door snapped them all to attention. But it was only Carson who came in, and without being asked said quietly to Violet. "They've gone to the library, m'lady."<p>

"They?" Cora asked. "Together?"

He nodded gravely, and as the corners of his mouth turned up, he was pleased to see his news received so well.

* * *

><p>"Here they are," Robert whispered. "You and I always used to read them in here."<p>

Mary reached out and stroked the rainbow-colored spines across the shelf. "I wanted the Red Fairy Book for Lily today." She pulled it out and opened it. "I wanted to read this one. Little Golden-hood," she said.

"You always liked that story," he said. "You didn't like Red Riding Hood."

"No," she replied. "Red Riding Hood needed the woodsman to save her and her grandmother. Little Golden-hood's Granny did the saving in this." She grinned up at him. "She reminded me of someone I knew."

"I'm so proud of you," he said.

Her eyebrow quirked up at that. "It's about time," she murmured.

He touched her cheek. "I've always been proud of how strong you are. I'm glad..." He kissed her forehead, a rare gesture from him and her eyes filled up again. "I'm just very happy."

"Will you read Little Golden-hood to Lily tomorrow?" she asked. "You do Granny's voice very well."

"This I shall have to hear."

And they turned to see the family at the door of the library, Violet leading the way, and despite all efforts to the contrary, Violet was smiling.

* * *

><p>Matthew could not quite get over this much open affection from Cousin Violet, who kept patting his arm and smiling as he walked her out to the motor, nor could he stop wondering at the looks between Cousin Violet and his mother. The two seemed to be speaking their own language this evening, and most of it in regards to Mary, who had joined them outside.<p>

"Goodnight, my dear boy. Well done and welcome home," she said as he handed her into the car.

"Goodnight, Granny," Mary said as she took Matthew's arm.

Violet looked rather pointedly at her. "It's a good thing you're getting married next Monday." Her eyebrows rose ominously, although she was smiling, and she leaned forward to kiss Mary's cheek, and as Matthew stepped back, he heard Violet murmur something to her grandchild, although he could not make out the words. Mary nodded, and in the half-moon light, he could see her cheeks darken as she kissed her grandmother's cheek.

"Goodnight," Violet called again as the car drove away.

Matthew looked down at Mary as they walked slowly back into the house. "So all is settled with your father, then?"

Mary smiled. "As much as it will ever be. I'm too happy right now not to forgive him."

"Forgive, but not forget?"

"Precisely." she replied.

He lifted her hand to his lips. "What was your grandmother talking about?"

"The same thing your mother talks about," she said wryly.

He laughed and kissed her hand again."I'm sorry my apparent insatiability is getting you in trouble," he said.

She looked up at him, startled. An inscrutable expression flickered across her eyes. "I would say that it's _our_ mutual insatiability getting _us_ in trouble, Mr. Crawley."

He grinned back and kept walking. She realized he didn't understand, and nearly stopped him, but decided against it. It was too soon anyway, and only a suspicion. They had all the time in the world.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thank you all for reviews/comments/encouragements... especially to EOlivet for reading/advising. ONE WEEK!_

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 9?**

She had grown up with people entering her room early in the morning to light fires and had long ago stopped waking up when it happened. This was different, Mary thought, as she slowly drifted awake from a dream that made her smile. It was too early, and the person next to her bed was utterly silent and not moving. "Matthew?" she whispered.

He let out a wavering sigh. "Sorry," he replied. She reached for the light, but he stayed her hand. "Don't." He sat down on her right, his back turned to her. "I... I've never slept in this house before," he stammered.

She realized he was shivering, and put her hand on his shoulder. "You're freezing," she said. "Get in."

"I'm not cold." He stood up again and began to pace. His voice was odd, she noticed, and he was wearing neither his dressing gown, nor his slippers.

"Matthew, if you aren't cold now, you will be." She pulled back the bedclothes.

He stopped and looked out the window, the white light shining on his face and she could see the tracks along his cheeks. "I'm not cold," he said again, and Mary suddenly knew what was wrong.

"You thought this was Germany."

He nodded, his lower lip trembling.

"Get in," she said softly.

He came to her, his eyes wet again, and slid in, grasping her fiercely as her arms wrapped around him. His shoulders shook as he buried his head against her and she shushed him as if he were Lily, her voice barely above a whisper, telling him he was safe, her lips brushing his ear, and finally his hoarse breaths slowed as she stroked his back. She had read far too many stories of men deeply affected by the war, knew the tragic ends to such tales, and she thanked God silently for this, that he was here, that he knew he could come to her, that her touch could soothe him.

"So," he began after a time, after his body had finally relaxed against hers. "I haven't had this dream since you and I.. since this." He kissed her collarbone. "There's a thing, running ahead of me on the battlefield, and it won't stop. I keep calling to her, and she runs faster."

"She?" she asked.

"She's human, but she's... wretchedly small. She never turned around when I called, but tonight she did, and it was your face on this creature, and..." He shuddered. "You just kept backing away and then you were gone. And I woke up and I didn't know... I couldn't remember.. I was alone." He let out a guttural sigh and gripped her a little tighter.

"I love you," she said against his ear, her fingers tangling in his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded against her neck, his breath warming her skin. "Please," she heard him whisper as his lips dragged across her chest, and she was startled by her own body's lightning response to his need. His hip nudged hers, and of the infinite ways they had learned to love each other over the last heady weeks, nothing felt quite so intimate as this gentle shifting against each other as her hand cleared the silk and cotton barriers between them. Her long legs curved around him as he found his way to her, and in a last, semi-conscious thought as their bodies locked, she marveled at it, at how the mere feel of him, the barest friction between them, and the sound of his voice in her ear telling her over and over how much he loved her could bring her more pleasure than she ever thought possible, and then as breaths turned to gasps, she wished with all her might, she _prayed_ that her suspicions, and the dream from which he'd awakened her, were true and that this love was becoming something real and alive deep inside her.

* * *

><p>He had brought her back from the darkness earlier that day, and now she had done the same for him, the physical act of love washing all fear away, leaving him feeling warm and curiously poetic. There could be nothing more lovely in this world, he thought lazily to himself, than the sight of his Mary curled up in his arms, sated and half-asleep, lips still slightly swollen from his kiss. "What <em>is<em> this?" he murmured. "We can't seem to behave at all."

She smiled, but did not open her eyes. "A madness most indiscreet," she replied, and he laughed.

"Clever Mary." he said. "It's just... it's like morphine."

One perfectly arched eyebrow arched a little higher. "Your skills at romance never cease to amaze me."

He kissed her forehead gently. He would refrain from voicing this comparison, but just as the little toy dog had been his anchor to reality in Germany, his tenuous connection to the world he came from, so now was Mary his anchor as he became accustomed to this new version of his old world. He had loved her for as long as he had known her, but over the years that love had changed and grown from a boyish ideal into something that was real and lasting, almost tangible, and now that they were lovers, he felt for the first time in years that he was on solid footing. He wondered, as he did each night when he held her in his arms, how after years of restraint they had come to this so quickly. It had been mutual, beyond anything he imagined, and he was utterly without regret, save for the fact that his mother and her grandmother seemed to be judging Mary for it. "Mary?" he asked.

"Sleeping," she mumbled.

"I am sorry about your grandmother being upset. And my mother. About this.. "

"Not upset." Her voice was slurred and soft.

"What did Cousin Violet say to you?"

She didn't reply.

"Mary?"

Her head burrowed closer to him and as sleep fully overtook her, a word fell from her lips, and at first he did not believe he'd heard it. It was ridiculous, it was too soon, it was... dear God. He looked at her, lit by soft moonlight, saw her hand covering her stomach, and his heart lurched at the sight. She'd done that for days and he hadn't noticed. Everything she'd done over the past week came surging back to the surface, the quiet distraction, the jumpiness, her hands, always her hands stroking, cradling, resting there as if to protect something. He blushed as he realized there was no earthly way she couldn't be, considering they'd been utterly reckless and hadn't had a night when they didn't... even some days... her study... and she... oh, God. "Baby," he repeated softly. He tried to remember how quickly Lavinia had known, when she had told him, and his stomach dropped again as he looked down at Mary and thought of the worst that could happen and knew he could not survive it.

* * *

><p>She awoke alone, the sky still lit only by the moon. She knew he had to go back, that they could not be caught together in her room, nor could he be caught wandering the hallways, but still she felt a pang at seeing the rumpled pillow without his head on it. "Morphine," she whispered with a grin. It was a terrible comparison, but not wrong. His touch alone thrilled her, soothed her, and unwound her from the armor she'd worn for years, never mind what his kiss and... she blushed as she always did at the memory of all they'd shared and done in the past weeks and then to think... Her hand fell to its now-customary place, strangely sure of it now in a way she hadn't been a few hours ago. She wouldn't <em>know<em> for weeks yet, but it must be true if she felt like this. Isobel had seen it almost immediately, and Granny... She grinned at the memory of her grandmother pointing out that nature seemed to think they'd wasted far too much time already, and advising very sweet tea and toast. She pulled the pillow closer to her, seeking his scent, and fell back to sleep, not knowing that on the other side of the house, Matthew was not sleeping.

* * *

><p>Armstrong noticed his charge had seemed to sleep badly, not solely because the normally cheerful man had snapped twice while being dressed, but also by the slightly haunted look in the man's eyes, one he recognized from war, but had never seen on Major Crawley. He had borne the snaps silently, acknowledged the apologies with nods, and saw him off to breakfast hoping he wouldn't take out whatever it was on anyone else. He knew Lady Mary had requested a tray, uncommon for her in London, which at least meant Major Crawley would be fed before he saw her.<p>

He was almost to the stairwell when Anna came out of Lady Mary's room with the tray. He held the door for her and took the tray without her permission, which earned him a pair of raised eyebrows and a small smile. "Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," she replied. "You missed breakfast."

He grinned. "I went down early and had tea and toast with Mrs. Patmore. She's a delight."

Anna stopped on the staircase and stared at him. "You weren't joking, were you? You're really angling to run Downton?"

"Eventually, Miss Smith," he said. "But frankly, I did it because my mother was a cook. The best friend you can make in a new house is the cook. At least then you know you'll be fed and your trays will be ready first."

She shook her head and kept walking. "And I suppose up next on your list is Mr. Carson?"

He didn't answer.

"You're terrible," she said with a smile. He smiled back, pleased she had believed those were his only reasons for not being at table.

* * *

><p>Lily was inconsolable for some reason when Mary walked into the nursery, her tiny sobs tearing at Mary's heart. Usually a quick cuddle would soothe her, but this morning she would not be calmed by such easy methods. Mary walked with her, sang to her, tried a story, but in the end it was only Mary's arms and the hypnotic motion of the rocking chair that stopped the little chin wobbling and her golden head finally drooped against Mary's breast. Breath held, she put her in the cot, and watched as Lily slept. The wave of love that swept over her brought tears to her eyes, not just for her Lily, but for the baby to come... <em>baby<em>, she thought, allowing the word to float around in her head. Once again she prayed it was true, and she pressed her hand against herself, her eyes closing as her face split in a smile. "Please," she whispered, as she heard a door open and shut.

When she opened her eyes, Matthew was in front of her, staring down at her hand, an unreadable expression on his face. He reached out, his fingers stroking the back of her hand. "This is what your grandmother meant," he said shakily.

"It's too soon to be sure," she murmured, her own fingers tangling with his. "But Granny and your mother seem to think it's true, and you know they're never wrong."

Matthew did not laugh. His breath hitched as his hand flattened across her, and an emotion she had not felt for some time began to prick at her. "What if..." He did not finish, and at first she did not know what he was asking, but as his hand began to tremble, she _knew_ and it tore at her.

"Matthew, she wasn't well to begin with. They said it was her heart." His hand jerked back as if burned, and she caught it. "Matthew..."

"What about your heart?" he hissed.

She nearly came back with a quip, but the look on his face terrified her. "It's fine, Matthew. It's always been fine. I've always been healthy. It will be fine."

"You can't know that."

"Matthew!" She looked down at Lily. "Stop it. I don't want to wake her up."

They were silent in the staircase, Matthew a step behind her, watching her jaw clench in a way he now knew was her method of stopping tears, and his own ache subsided as he cursed himself for causing her pain. He was being irrational, he _knew_ it was thoroughly irrational, but as they came out onto the upstairs hallway, the fear of what had happened before, what could happen, came back at him in a rush. "I can't lose you," he whispered. "And don't tell me I'm not going to. We both know what can happen."

"Yes," she said. "I was there."

His eyes darted up to hers, and for some time they merely looked at each other, on opposite sides of a hallway. "I can't lose you," he repeated.

She leaned back against the wall next to the nursery staircase, the fear rising in her throat, manifesting in a nasty metallic taste that roiled her stomach. "What are you proposing, Matthew? That you never have me again? That you not have me at all? I could fall down these stairs, I could be hit by a car, I could catch any number of dread diseases. Maybe the plague makes a comeback. Or perhaps Edith finally gets up the nerve to do me in." A flicker of a smile crossed his face, and she let out a sigh. "Matthew, please..."

"Matthew!" Her father's voice startled them both. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Matthew replied. "I'll join you downstairs." He turned back to begin an apology, but the look on her face stopped him.

"Are you off on an adventure?" Mary's voice was unnaturally bright and Matthew's heart wrenched.

"We're going to look at the farm changes. Will I see you at lunch?"

She shook her head. "I'm going with Mamma and your mother to Granny's."

"Good luck," he said, but she did not smile as she turned away from him and walked rapidly to her room.

She hoped she would not be sick before she reached it.

* * *

><p>It was colder than London, but the thin sunlight was brighter somehow, and Matthew felt calmer as he strode across the frozen ground with Robert. His leg, well-wrapped and supported in his hunting boots, was giving him little trouble even in the chill and he welcomed the freshness of the air, the clarity it brought to his mind after a morning he did not want to revisit, even as he knew he must.<p>

He knew he was being an irrational fool, and he was doubly angry at himself for letting Mary see it, especially now when she needed him to take care of her. It wasn't as if he didn't _want _a child, her child, their child... their children, but he could not get a handle on the fear of losing her. He needed to apologize, he needed to make her understand it was only his silly nightmare, and he needed to convince her he was thrilled about the baby, even as his heart still throbbed with fear at the thought. He'd convinced a houseful of Germans he was something he wasn't. He could make Mary believe him.

Robert knew nothing of this, and Matthew was grateful for the distraction of the farms and the new harvesters. Only a few of those who were returning from the war had made it home so far, the demobbing taking far too long, and so it had fallen to young sons and wives and daughters to care for the farms in their absence. They were thriving, although the loss of so many men was very much felt, and the eyes that fell on Matthew's stick and observed the future earl's slight limp were neither pitying, nor rude, only sad in a way to which Matthew was beginning to be accustomed.

The walk made him ravenous, and the luncheon was a cheerful affair, with Sybil attempting to interest Edith in political economic theory, which was answered with combustion engine repair. Robert looked slightly lost at the direction his daughters were taking the conversation, and Matthew grinned at him conspiratorially. "If Mary were here, we'd be getting a lecture on business bills in Parliament," he said.

"It was frocks four years ago," Robert said wryly. "And four years ago I would have been appalled at this kind of talk. Now.."

"It's nice," Matthew finished.

"Well, at least someone can drive the car," Robert replied. "No, it is nice. I'm proud of them. I'm proud of all my children," he said fondly and smiled again at Matthew. "Tell me about the new firm."

* * *

><p>Mary was right. Robert did a rather marvelous imitation of Cousin Violet's voice as he read aloud to Lily in the library. The girls played backgammon as Robert spun out the story of Little Golden-hood, a version of the tale Matthew had never heard, but he was not surprised Mary had preferred it, since it involved no woodsman saving the child. Rather, it was the magic fire in her hood that repelled the wolf, a magic fire created by her grandmother. Appropriate, he thought, as he heard the car pull round and the doors open and shut.<p>

His mother and Cousin Cora came in, and a minor scrap ensued over who would get Lily first, with Isobel deciding to lose graciously. Mary was nowhere in sight.

"She's gone up to rest before dinner," his mother said, darting him a look that told him all he needed to know about what was discussed at _that _luncheon. "Sybil, dear, she's asked for you. Edith, she wants to talk to you after the dinner gong. Christmas things, I expect. Or wedding."

* * *

><p>She wondered if it was her imagination playing tricks on her, or if she really was beginning to have all the symptoms. It had been a trying afternoon, between her mother's shock at discovering her daughter's less-than-proper behavior over the past several weeks, and Granny and Isobel describing their own experiences in, if not quite gruesome detail, at least enough that she was slightly more nervous about the prospect. Not the actual baby, of course, and she sighed happily as she remembered Lily's first days, how when they returned to London, it was only her own arms that Lily seemed to want, and she found herself spending more and more time with her until that magic day six weeks after she was born, when Lily had smiled at Mary, a full-on, toothless, adoring grin, and after that, Mary could not get enough of her.<p>

A soft knock forced her out of her reverie. "Come in," she murmured, and Sybil's dark head popped around the door. "How was lunch?"

"Very pleasant," Sybil replied. "Edith's become quite nice. It's probably the engine obsession." She sat on the edge of the bed and patted Mary's hand. "Are you all right? You look tired."

"Thank you for that," Mary said dryly. "I'm fine." The gravel crunched under the car wheels outside, and she watched as Sybil flinched at the sound. "Is it difficult being back here?"

"Why would it be?"

"Does he write?"

"Who?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Sybil, don't be difficult. Do you write to him and does he write back?"

"He says he can't write me." She kicked at the bedpost. "We're adults. Papa can't forbid it."

"But he doesn't write?"

"Not after he wrote me telling me he couldn't. That he was working, but he wouldn't tell me what he was doing, only that he would make me proud, and that he was proud of me for going to university, but..."

"Are you going to keep going?" Mary's hand covered her sister's.

Sybil looked shocked. "Of course! Mary..." She scooted up to sit next to her sister. "I love it. I can't give it up. I want my degree and I'm going to earn it."

"No matter what I'm about to show you?"

"Mary..." Sybil's face fell. "What is it?"

Mary had agonized over this for weeks, and even now was not sure it was a good idea. "There's a black folio in the left drawer. Consider it your early present."

Mary expected tears, or exclamations, or surprise of a vocal sort. She did not expect silence as Sybil looked at the newspaper clippings, reading the stories to herself. "Why?" she finally whispered.

"Why what?"

"Why show these to me?"

"Because my editors say he has real promise. And before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with it. One of his stories was reprinted in one of my papers, and that's how I found out what he was doing."

Sybil's eyes were shining. "Does this mean you approve?"

"Heavens, no." Mary leaned back against the pillows. "I don't approve and I might never approve."

"Then why?"

"It's Christmas," Mary said softly. "What other reason do I need?"

* * *

><p>Now that Sybil had gone, clutching that stack of clippings from Ireland with the byline <em>Thomas Branson, <em>Mary was not sure she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She did not know how Matthew had guessed, if he had noticed what Granny and Cousin Isobel had seen, but now he knew and he obviously wasn't happy about it. She wished he hadn't found out. He was still terribly fragile, in need of protection while he recovered from an ordeal far more terrifying and complex than anything she could have imagined. She had been naïve to think he would rebound from it so quickly. It would have been better if she'd been able to keep the secret for a few months, to let him get stronger, but it couldn't be helped now. Come Monday, when they were married, and she could freely hold him at night to keep away the nightmares, she believed she could get him used to the idea. She would have to be strong for him, for them, for all of them. She could convince him she was strong enough, even as she felt dizzy and sick and exhausted, just as Granny said she would, and she shut her eyes against the light, and against the fear and breathed until she felt what she wanted to feel, which was nothing.

* * *

><p>It was not sleep from which his voice awoke her, but that old habit of hiding inside herself. She had forced herself so far inward that she had no idea how much time had passed. <em>Minutes or hours, <em>she wondered as her eyes opened to the sound of his voice. He was on the bed, holding a box, the smile on his face so sweet that tears rushed out of her eyes.

"I thought one beautiful gift deserved another," he said softly. "This can't match yours, of course. Nothing can." He held out the red leather case. "I'm sorry about this morning, Mary. It just surprised me."

He was lying, of course. She could see it in him, the struggle to keep the smile on his face even as that haunted look flickered through his eyes, the way his hand shook ever so slightly. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, that she understood he was afraid, part of her wanted to scream at him for being idiotic, but she knew better. He wanted her to believe it was all right, and she did not want him to feel any worse than he already did. So she took the box with a smile, and opened it, her light gasp perfectly genuine and real at the vision inside, a delicate necklace with a large stone of icy blue, a briolette-cut aquamarine, hanging from a Y of platinum set with four diamonds.

"You wore that color the day after I came home," he murmured as she lifted it from the box. "It made me think of you that morning."

"It's Lily's color," she said as she allowed it to warm in her hand. "The color of her eyes... your eyes."

And she breathed a little easier as the darkness in him seemed to lift as he laughed. "Well, that makes me seem a little vain." He took it from her and she sat up to let him put it on her, pushing down the wave of nausea that struck her as she moved, and she welcomed his embrace and kiss even as she knew there was now a lie between them and it ached to acknowledge it.

* * *

><p>The slight strain between them was apparent at dinner, but no one was impolite enough, not even Edith, to do anything but smooth over all awkward silences. Mary ate little, the tastes colliding in unpleasant ways and she almost cried with relief when her mother stood up. "I'm going up to bed," she murmured to Matthew as she passed him. "Good night."<p>

He felt dismissed in a way, and it pained him, but watching her at dinner only confirmed his suspicion that one Lady Mary Crawley was far more perceptive than any German, and that he could not fool her. She looked exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her as she passed him, but what little sense of propriety he had left when it came to her forbade any sort of public contact, and he was not sure she would want him to come to her this evening. Christmas Eve, he thought to himself.

* * *

><p>It was nice to be so loved, Mary thought as she carried Lily into her bedroom and showed Nanny where to put the basket, but she wondered if she wasn't starting a bad habit of spoiling her little girl. Nanny seemed to think so, with her slightly disapproving stare after Mary had come into the nursery before going to bed to find a fretful baby. "Teething," Nanny said, and when Mary had touched a cool finger to Lily's mouth, the baby wasted no time in putting it to use. Watching Lily chew on her finger made Mary laugh, made her feel happy again, and so she told Nanny she would keep the baby in her room that night, at least until she got her to sleep. One didn't do that sort of thing, Nanny's face seemed to say, but Mary did not like the idea of Lily waking up alone. She had calmed considerably by the time Anna finished dressing Mary for bed, and even smiled before being wrapped up and put in Mary's arms again, where, after pressing her small cheek a little closer to Mary, she fell happily asleep.<p>

* * *

><p>The dream was different this time, beginning as it always did in a trench, filthy and stinking of blood. The wraith appeared in front of him, running lightly over the mud that dragged him down. She floated up the ladder and headed into the battlefield, and he could do nothing but follow her. Only this time, as he crested the top, it was no battlefield, but the green, pristine lawn of Downton. He stopped, staring down at his boots, once encrusted with mud, but now shiny, and then his hands, scarred but perfectly clean. He called to the wraith, only this time instead of German, it was English, and instead of backing away, she ran to him, laughing and he picked her up. He could feel the small arms around his neck, hear a child's giggle in his ear, and he could hear Mary's sweet laugh as well, as the light disappeared and he opened his eyes.<p>

"Did you know you smile in your sleep, Matthew?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, and he drank in the sight of her in his chair, cradling a sleeping Lily. She was still wearing the necklace, and it shone steadily in the moonlight, and his only answer was to smile again. "Lily is teething," she continued. "And I didn't want her to be alone."

He waited for the fear to return, but there was nothing like fear in him anymore, only a kind of swirling, delicate joy inside as he looked at her, in the dressing gown she'd stolen from him weeks ago, feet tucked under herself as she held his daughter. Her daughter, he reminded himself. "Mary," he said softly. "You should sleep. I'll hold her for a while."

"You need your rest too," she replied.

He shook his head and stood up, pushing his feet into his slippers. "Not as much as you do."

She watched as he pulled on a dressing gown, his eyes never leaving hers, and she sensed something had changed from that afternoon. "It's all right to be afraid, Matthew," she said.

"I know." He kissed her forehead and then her mouth, gently, but firmly. "Let me take care of you."

"You do," she protested, but he was already lifting Lily into his arms.

"Not enough." His hand brushed across her belly and he let his hand rest there as he kissed her again. "Not the way you've taken care of me, or my mother, or Lily. Everyone. And it's time you let someone else have a go. Into bed," he said with mock sternness.

"Her basket," she murmured, and put it next to the bed. "If you get tired, she can sleep in here."

"Bed," he repeated, and she acquiesced, curling up in the very spot in which he'd awakened, her eyes already drifting shut. "Mary?"

"Mmm?"

"It's Christmas."

She smiled, but did not open her eyes. "I hope you like your present."

He watched as her body relaxed in sleep, and felt that swirl of joy grow as his daughter nestled closer to him. "I do," he whispered. "Very much."

* * *

><p>He did like his present, and was utterly surprised by it. He had no idea Mary knew of his desire for a motorcycle, and the Triumph was, well, a triumph, as he opened the small box to find a framed picture of it. "No sense in shipping it up here," she'd said as he kissed her cheek. "I hope you don't mind just having the picture for now."<p>

"Of course not," he said. "And I hope you don't mind a picture either."

He had been looking forward to this moment for days, ever since he'd gotten the finished product in his hands. Armstrong had placed it on an easel, covered in velvet, and there was a hush in the library as she pulled it off.

It was as delicate as its subject, the watercolors capturing the icy blue eyes, the golden baby curls, the sweet pink cheeks and rosebud mouth. Yet it was the moment it caught, with Lily holding out Perseus, as if to give him to whoever was looking at the painting, that brought tears to Mary's eyes. She looked at the signature and gasped. "However did you..."

"I met him at the club," Matthew replied. "He's working on a commission for the War Memorials committee, and when I told him about Lily and Perseus, he offered to do a watercolor sketch. Said he needed a break from painting a war scene. Obviously, I couldn't say no."

"Obviously," she said, her voice catching as she wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Matthew." And she kissed him, not caring that her grandmother seemed slightly scandalized by _how_ she was kissing him. "Lily," she said as she broke off the kiss. "Lily darling, look. It's you." She picked up the child from the crib they'd put in the library that morning. "Did you pose.." She stopped, her lips against Lily's forehead, then put her own cheek to Lily's, and the smile fell from her face, replaced by a look of abject terror. "Matthew," she whispered. "She's _hot."_

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Your reviews and alerts are so appreciated - thank you all for sticking with this! Extra thanks to Eolivet as always._

* * *

><p><em><strong><strong>_**Never Such Innocence Again 10/?**

She knew it wasn't from the teething, no matter what that idiot doctor told them. Lily was feverish and weak, and looked as unlike herself as Mary had ever seen, and the smug attitude of Clarkson talking about maternal instinct as if she couldn't possibly know when Lily was really ill made her want to bite something other than the inside of her cheek.

Her cheek was raw now, her fear increasing by the minute as she wiped the cold cloth across Lily's little face and neck. She should be crying if it was teething, or gnawing on something, but she wanted nothing except Mary's arms. "Darling girl," she whispered as she kissed the hot little forehead. "Please get better."

Isobel's hand on her shoulder startled her. "Mary, if you want to rest, or go down for dinner, I'll stay with her."

Mary shook her head gently. "I'm not leaving her." She looked up at Isobel. "And thank you for being on my side with Clarkson."

"He's an idiot." Her hand brushed across her granddaughter's wispy curls. "She is so like Matthew at that age..."

"What was he like?"

"As a baby?"

"And as a boy." Lily let out a little sob and pushed at Mary, and settled only when the icy flannel was brushed across her cheeks.

"He was..." Isobel's eyes grew soft. "Very wanted. I wasn't exactly young and we'd thought perhaps.. And then he was born and he was perfect. Rather like Lily in temperament, only even easier, but very much a boy. Always a boy, rushing headlong into danger. I worried about him, but his father just mended the wounds and sent him on his way." She paused, and Mary knew from the slight mist across her eyes that Isobel's heart, like Matthew's, had never quite healed from the loss. "He loved sport, and got quite good at cricket when he went off to school. He never seemed to study, but he scraped by. I wondered if... But then his father died, and he took that very hard. I think that's when he became so serious." She smiled sadly at Mary. "Sometimes I miss that reckless little cricketer who never studied."

"Did he ever want to be a doctor?"

"No. He always wanted to be a solicitor. I think he imagined himself Lord Chancellor someday."

Mary smiled at the unwitting awareness she had so long ago of Matthew's dreams. "Now he'll be in Lords. Poor Matthew."

"Why poor Matthew?"

Mary shrugged. "Power derived from title, not from his own wits. And he has such lovely wits." She rocked Lily, humming something to her, smiling down at the little girl.

Isobel could see the fear in her eyes and a fierce wave of love for Mary rushed up through her. "Clarkson's wrong, you know. About maternal instinct. It's not derived from actually giving birth."

"It might happen faster, though." The baby's eyes began to droop.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't love Lily right away," she whispered.

"Well, why would you?" Isobel leaned toward Mary and put her hand on her arm. "She wasn't yours then, but she is yours now, just as I think of you as a little bit mine now. I hope your mother won't mind."

Mary shook her head and leaned over to kiss Isobel on the cheek. "I.." she began, and it was clearly hard for her to continue. "She was all I would ever have of Matthew."

It was too much to think about, and neither of them spoke for a while, until Lily began to cough, a dreadful sound that left all three of them shaking.

Isobel's hand went to Lily's head. "You weren't wrong. This isn't teething."

* * *

><p>Clarkson came back before dinner at the bidding of Carson, but Mary was far too terrified to feel any vindication when she learned the hall boy and two housemaids who had reported feeling sick the night before did in fact have the 'flu, and Clarkson did not dare look at Mary as he described what she should continue to do through the night and what to look for. Lily had gone from fussy to listless, but at least she had eaten a little during the day and was not quite as hot by the time Matthew came up with Anna and a tray. "Eat," he said simply. "Or sleep. Or both."<p>

Mary, already queasy and shaky from a long day in the nursery, did not mind being forced to rest for a few minutes. "Wake me in an hour," she said as she curled up on the nursery chaise, and smiled at Lily, who answered with a weak, adoring smile before Mary closed her eyes.

She never knew if it was an hour.

It was the last normal moment.

* * *

><p><em>Screams awakened her, and there was blood and sick in the cot, and Matthew was gone, and Mary did not know where those screams came from, only that she was the only one who was calm, the only one who wasn't crying.<em>

_Why is there so much noise, why don't they understand that it should be quiet, that Lily can't get better if it isn't quiet?_

_Clarkson is useless. _

_Matthew would understand, but Matthew wasn't there, and neither was Isobel, and it was just a little nosebleed, and babies were sick all the time. Lily had been sick before. Anna knew things should be quiet, only they said Anna was ill now, and she couldn't come, and wouldn't m'lady want to come downstairs now, and Mary did not know who thought this was a good idea, not when Lily was coughing so much. _

_Armstrong understood, Armstrong didn't try to tell her to do things, Armstrong just brought useful things, and Clarkson again, who wasn't useful, who still did nothing, and Armstrong asked if Anna could be moved from the rooms at the top of the house. _

_Too cold, of course she should be moved, put her in the south gallery, make sure Clarkson sees her._

_No, I can't come downstairs, I can't leave her._

_Why isn't Clarkson here, why won't anything stop Lily's coughing? _

_Darling girl, don't cry._

_Lily, darling. Lily. Lily._

_It was up to Mary and the screamer, who turned out to be the nanny, who turned out to be useless, and who disappeared at some point, and it was only Mary who held Lily through the night. _

_Matthew, where are you?_

_Lily... LILY._

_No one heard Mary's fervent prayers, no one heard her beg for Lily's life, and after a while, no one came in that long, black night._

* * *

><p>Something was making noise and moving.<p>

Someone ached all over, and something smelled, and Mary opened her eyes to grey skies, weak sunlight and frost on the windowpane in front of her. Daylight... but it had just been night. She was on the chaise, but she'd only put her feet up for a moment. She had just...

Lily.

The memory of the night came back at her in a horrific rush, the smell suddenly identified, and Mary looked down at the weight in her arms.

* * *

><p>Matthew's legs were like lead as he climbed the nursery staircase, the fear of what he was about to face dragging him down even more than the ache in his left leg, weighing on his heart even more than what he had just left. In the chaos of that long night, Clarkson had told him his daughter was dying, and that Mary did not believe him. "A matter of minutes," he'd said as he returned from upstairs a few hours ago. Matthew had started up the stairs a dozen times and every time something else happened and he was drawn back.<p>

Now, in the awful calm after the worst night of his life, with dawn just beginning to break, just as he knew he had to face what was upstairs, Armstrong had come to him and said someone had rung from the nursery and that the scullery maid had come down crying after lighting the fires.

He heard singing as he opened the door, a light, sweet, slightly shaky voice that did not belong in the disaster scene that greeted him, with stained linens and baby clothes on the floor, and a trace of a scent he remembered all too well from the trenches and now from downstairs. _My child is dead,_ he thought to himself.

Soft splashes of water came from the bath, and Matthew followed the sounds. Through the half-open door, he could see Mary, disheveled from the night, her hair undone, her shoes gone, seated by the small tub, bathing something he could not see. Her voice shook a little more and as he recognized the song, he wanted to die himself.

"_You made me love you.. I didn't want to do it.. I didn't want to do it."_

* * *

><p>Mary wondered why she'd never done this before. It wasn't hard at all to draw a little bath, and Nanny and Isobel always said Lily loved baths, and there was something so wonderful about Lily afterwards, the sweet smell of her hair and the pink perfection of her skin. She stroked the warm, wet cloth across Lily's shoulder, and sang what she always sang to Lily, the only song she could remember, and what had seemed silly the first time when Lily was only weeks old, but what had always soothed her better than anything Nanny could do. "And all the time you knew it.." she crooned. "Didn't you, my girl?"<p>

A creak startled her, and her head whipped around to see Matthew, still in the shirtsleeves from the night before. "Where were you?" she breathed. "We've missed you, haven't we?" She pointed at the shelf next to him. "Will you hand me a towel?"

* * *

><p><em>Lady Mary refuses to understand the child is dying and there is nothing we can do. <em>

Matthew felt as if he would be sick, and he could not look at Mary or the bath as he passed her the towels, his hands shaking. He stared at the window, at the barely discernible rays of sunlight peering through grey, realizing that twenty-four hours ago he had awakened in Mary's arms, Lily asleep in a basket by his bed, and now... Mary was wrapping a small, silent form in a towel and talking nonsense to it and he had a sudden, terrible urge to shake her, to make her understand what had happened here, what havoc had been wreaked on this house in the past twelve hours alone. He turned his head back to her as she stood, and his eyes locked on the sleepy, blinking, blue eyes of his daughter.

Lily.

Who _yawned _at him and nestled against Mary.

And he staggered, and grasped the doorframe as he realized his daughter was _alive. "_Clarkson said," he whispered.

She gave him a scornful look and moved close to the fire. "He said this was teething." She picked up a blanket, warming by the fire and quickly wrapped Lily in it. "And it wasn't."

"She's all right?"

"She's better." Mary tucked the feathery soft blanket tightly around Lily, who let out a cross little "bah" sound. "The fever's gone, but the cough isn't." As if to prove her mother right, Lily coughed, and Mary rubbed the small back gently as she calmed. "And she's hungry. Armstrong?"

The valet had entered so silently Matthew hadn't seen him, carrying a tea tray. "Yes, m'lady?"

"Can you arrange for a bottle for the baby? I don't know where Nanny is."

"I'll take care of it, m'lady." His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Lily, and his eyes flicked to Matthew before he slipped out.

"Tea," Mary sighed. "Could you pour?" She sat on the hard chair next to the fire and put her feet up on the grate. "Lily, I should have gotten in that bath with you. Look at me."

Matthew had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. His hand shook as he handed the cup to her and watched as she drank it, her eyes never leaving Lily.

"Is that better? No, you can't have tea." She held Lily as closely as she could. "I hope a bath wasn't a bad thing, but I didn't get her head wet and she was just a mess and it calmed her... Oh, God, Matthew, it was awful. Where were you?"

He was saved from having to answer when Armstrong reappeared with a bottle and Lily reached for it greedily, which brought tears to Mary's eyes. "There, my darling." She pressed a light kiss to Lily's forehead as she ate, which resulted in a cross look from Lily that made Matthew laugh in spite of everything. "I can't believe..." he said.

"Clarkson's an idiot. Your mother was right."

He blanched, but she did not see it. "Armstrong, how's An.. Smith?" The pause made her look up. "Armstrong?"

"She's very sick, m'lady, but the doctor thinks she'll pull through." He looked quickly at Matthew. "M'lady, one of the housemaids is coming up to clean the nursery. I've taken the liberty of requesting the footmen move a cot downstairs into your room so you can keep L.. Miss Crawley with you. The... If it's all right, m'lady, I think it's for the best."

"Oh, Armstrong, what a wonderful idea. Thank you." She looked back at Lily. "How did you get the bottle warmed so quickly?"

"A moment in the tea kettle," he said softly. "Old trick."

"Armstrong, is there anything you can't do?"

He did not smile."Yes, m'lady, and I shall endeavor to ensure you never discover what it is." He looked at Matthew. "M.. Major Crawley, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Of course." Mary nodded at them both, and turned all her attention back to Lily.

* * *

><p>Armstrong waited until they were out of earshot, near the nursery door, before he turned. "The nanny, m'lord. She... seems to have succumbed. She's in the other room."<p>

Matthew shook his head. "My God."

Armstrong's voice got even lower. "Does Lady Mary know about... "

"Not yet." He looked back at the door of the bath, still slightly ajar. "I want to get her downstairs and in her room first. I can't..." His face began to fall, his jaw trembling.

"It's good news about the baby," Armstrong said quietly.

Matthew caught himself and nodded. "It's better than good." A laugh from Mary made his face go soft for a moment. "Thank you, Armstrong."

* * *

><p>Mary was kissing Lily's face and the little hand batting at her. "She's much better," she said as Matthew came in. "Look, darling."<p>

"We should get you two downstairs," Matthew said softly. "You should get some rest."

"I should get cleaned up," she murmured. "I'm a wreck." She stood up and swayed a little. "Could you take the baby?"

He took Lily into his arms, eliciting an angry cry and smiled as Lily reached back for Mary. "Mamma's coming with us, darling," he said and pressed his lips to her forehead. _Alive, alive, alive,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

><p>There was a breakfast tray in Mary's room when they opened the door, and he could see the steam coming from the bath in the adjoining room. "If he can do hair, Matthew, I might steal him," Mary murmured. She picked up a piece of toast and Matthew watched as she went pale. "Do you mind if I take a bath, darling? The.." She waved at herself and he nodded.<p>

"Of course not, my dear. We'll be here." Lily, who had resigned herself to being held by Matthew, was snoring delicately, and Mary smiled at them both. "Do you.. will you need any help? Should I ring for someone?"

"Oh no," she replied. "Unless you want to keep me company." At the slight shock on his face, she grinned. "It's not as if you haven't seen it before."

He watched her walk into the bath, his mind torn to pieces by all that had happened. Lily had survived. Others had not, and he did not know how to begin to tell Mary.

* * *

><p>It felt better than she imagined, to sink into warm, scented water, to scrub away the literal reminders of what had happened the day and night before and to close her eyes against it all. She could hear Matthew in the other room with Armstrong, arranging the cot, and she grinned at the mental image of the two of them putting Lily in it.<p>

Lily.

To have awakened with Lily in her arms, to have believed for a few terrifying moments that her darling girl was dead and then to see those eyes open, to hear her breathe, to know she was alive, filthy, and completely cross... Mary's heart swelled again at the memory. How Lily had survived that awful night, she did not know, but she was grateful, so grateful. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for my daughter's life."

_My daughter_.

She opened her eyes. She had never slipped into thinking that before. It was always just Lily, or the baby, or _my girl_. "My daughter," she said aloud again. Was it gradual, she wondered, or was it that dark night that had made her see what Isobel already knew, that Lily was her daughter, that the responsibility she once felt had turned into pure love, and that it was and would be no different from the love she already felt for this barely-real child to come? She hugged herself and sank even deeper into the welcoming heat. _A boy,_ she thought to herself as she closed her eyes again.

* * *

><p>Matthew could not stop staring at Lily.<p>

Her perfect hands, her buttoned-up eyes, her little mouth open as she slept were so precious now that he did not want to leave her side. "Mamma saved you," he whispered.

_Mamma._

_Mother._

"Matthew."

Mary stood in the doorway, wrapped in his too-big dressing gown, the grey wool swallowing her up. He put a finger to his lips and she smiled as she padded over to the crib. He wondered at how tiny, how _frail_ Mary felt in his arms, her head almost under his chin, as he held her close. "You saved her," he murmured.

She put her head into the crook of his neck and he could feel her shoulders begin to shake.

"Where were you?" came through soft tears.

And she gasped as he suddenly picked her up in his arms and sat down with her on the bed.

He did not know where to start.

* * *

><p>He was frightening her, his jaw flexing as he tried to speak, started to tell her something, his eyes flicking to her face again and again. "Matthew," she said softly. "What is it?"<p>

His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. "A lot of people are sick... were sick, Mary."

"Besides Anna?"

He nodded. "Your.. father and mother came down with it last night after dinner." His arms tightened around her.

"But they're going to be all right." Mary's voice was firm, and his heart broke.

"No," was all he said, and watched as it hit her.

* * *

><p>He was inches from her, she was in his arms, and yet he seemed so far away, his voice not real, his lips moving, but what he was saying made no sense.<p>

"It happened about four hours ago," he said softly. "Oh, God, Mary, I'm so sorry."

She nodded, swallowing several times, her eyes avoiding his. "Is that why people kept trying to get me to come downstairs?"

He must have said something, but she didn't hear anything, only a thumping in her ears that was her heart, beating faster and faster as the words coursed through her head. _No, I'm so sorry. No. No. _

_No. _

"Edith. Sybil. I must..." She pulled herself from his arms and stood up, bracing herself on the post of her bed. "They'll need me. Where are they?"

His voice was getting farther and farther away. "Where are they?" she repeated. Bile rose in her throat and she fought it, fought to keep from getting sick.

"Sybil's room," he said, and it was too loud, and she stumbled backwards.

"Are they...?" She couldn't finish.

"They aren't sick," he said and she let out a small cry.

"Mary, you need to rest. You need to eat something." He reached for her, but she flung his hand away, and looked up at him.

"They need me," she replied stubbornly, and he nodded sadly as she shoved her feet into her slippers.

_Something else is wrong,_ a voice inside her said, and she looked at him, really looked at his face as if for the first time, and saw the tearstains on his cheeks, the purple of exhaustion smudged under his eyes, the slight shake of his hands. "Matthew?" she said, and her voice was small, so small, she could barely hear it herself. "Who else?"

And nothing, not even his nightmares, had made his jaw tremble so, and never had she heard such a voice from him, a boy's voice, a child's, as his shoulders bowed, and he said one word.

"Mother..."

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews/favorites/alerts... and for your gentle "where's the next chapter" prods :D... Here it is. Extra thanks to Eolivet and ARCurren for their help. They know why. :D The next chapter(s) will arrive much faster.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence <strong>**Again 11/?**

**_December 26, 1918_  
><em>3pm<em>  
><strong>

_Twenty-four hours ago, it had been Christmas._

_Twenty-four hours ago, her son remarked that he did not feel at all well, and that he thought he should lie down. Her daughter-in-law accompanied him upstairs._

_The next time she saw them, they were dead, side by side in the bed they shared for so many years, two of six casualties in that house in twenty-four hours. "Savage disease," the doctor told them, and Violet thought that was far too weak a phrase for what had been wrought on that house. In one night, it had swept through and taken the Earl and Countess, Isobel Crawley, the nanny, a housemaid, and the hall boy. The worst cases had looked to be Mary's maid and Matthew's daughter, but both had somehow clung to life._

_Twenty-four hours later, no one else was sick. It had chosen its victims and moved on, leaving a terrifying chasm in that house, and, Violet feared, an insurmountable kind of sadness shared by the survivors. That her son and daughter-in-law had died was terrible enough, but that their children were now orphans, regardless of their age, was tragic beyond her ability to comprehend, and that the heir was alone as well... Her mind reeled with the horror of it as she sat in the library in the waning hours of the afternoon waiting for Travis to arrive for the funeral arrangements. Lord Grantham, she thought to herself as she watched Matthew._

_He had begun this horrible day by coming to see her at the Dower House, to break the news to her himself. She could tell he was frightened, tell he was unsure, and yet he knew just what to say, and what needed to be done. Mary was with her sisters, he had said, and so she had gathered herself and her eight decades of knowing loss and tragedy and joined him at Downton, if for no other reason than to force Mary to eat and sleep and to take a little of the inordinately large burden off both Mary and Matthew._

_Now, as she stared at the Earl and her granddaughter, she knew the other reason why she had to be here..._

* * *

><p>Matthew's hands gripped her waist as his cheek pressed against her belly, like a child, shaking, but not crying. <em>Isobel, <em>her mind kept telling her, _Isobel, Mamma, Papa. Gone. The poor nanny, that boy, that girl... they were so young. Gone. In a night. _Her hands stroked his hair, her voice murmuring nonsense, much as she had done for him two nights ago, much as she had done for their daughter last night. _Alone,_ she thought. _Mamma. Papa... Oh, God. Papa... Isobel. _

His hands loosened and he stood up suddenly, dry-eyed, his jaw tight. "I need to tell your grandmother." She nodded. "And we need to.. plan."

"Yes," she said softly. "Matthew?" He stopped at the door and looked back at her. _My God, _she thought. _He's the Earl of Grantham now. _"My love, I'm so sorry."

It was entirely inadequate, as would be every word spoken in the next few days, but it was not so much the words as the look between them that mattered at that moment, the instant comprehension of all that small phrase entailed. It was not just what was lost, but the terrible burden of what was gained. He did not smile, or frown, but merely nodded as he left.

When the door clicked shut, she thought she might be sick. Wave after wave of dizziness struck her and she did not think she could move, until the scent of tea and toast struck her and she realized it was quite the opposite sensation. She ate ravenously, doggedly pushing aside all the thoughts that kept flailing inside her mind, concentrating on only that one need. She had lost so much in one night and she would not lose anything else.

_One fence at a time._

* * *

><p>Somehow, Armstrong found a kitchen maid who'd grown up caring for five little brothers and sisters to take care of Lily, a mere child herself named Emily. Somehow, Armstrong knew O'Brien shouldn't work and had commandeered the housemaid she'd been training to dress Mary. Somehow, Armstrong knew that Carson's shoulders were not broad enough to take all of the burden, and so he'd gently, respectfully, and with Carson's full knowledge and final approval, organized the day ahead so that no one would wonder about meals, or guests, or anything. And somehow, even though she had yet to ask, Armstrong knew to tell her where she would find Anna.<p>

* * *

><p>Mary stared down at the bed, at Sybil holding Edith. She did not see two grown women, but little girls, all curls and braids and silly hopes. Her head swam with memories of the nursery, of stormy nights when her sisters would crawl into her bed, partly out of fear, and partly because it wasn't allowed. She remembered ghost stories and teasing, nights when she would lord it over them that she would leave the nursery behind, that she was about to be a young lady, nights when they would make up stories about the servants, when they would talk wistfully about Mamma's lovely dresses.<p>

_Mamma..._

Sybil stirred and opened her eyes. "Mary," she whispered.

And Mary climbed into bed with her sisters and cradled Sybil, just as she had when they were small, when Sybil was afraid of lightning. "Darling," Mary whispered, stroking the dark hair back from her sister's face. Sybil burrowed against Mary, releasing Edith, who jerked awake and sat up, staring at Mary. _Like always,_ Mary thought, as Edith wiped her eyes and watched them warily. A wave of agony washed over Mary and she opened her arms.

This was how Violet found them, twined around each other in Sybil's bed, Mary comforting her two sobbing sisters, and as her still-dry, haunted eyes raised to meet her grandmother's, Violet's heart broke for them all, but mostly for the eldest, for her favorite, who would bear a far heavier cross than her two sisters. She put the younger two to work, knowing that distraction was a decent, if temporary, salve on such raw wounds. It should really have fallen to Mary to notify family and friends, but Violet had ordered her off to bed, the tone brooking no argument, not even from Edith whose eyes seemed to wonder why Mary could sleep while they could not.

Mary was silent on the walk back to her room, her pace as slow as her grandmother's and she wondered absently who was slowing for whom. "I should go see Anna first," she started, but her grandmother's hand shot up.

"No. You need to sleep." She peered closely at her granddaughter's face. "I take it nothing has changed?"

Mary could pretend not to know what she was talking about, but it was pointless to do so. "No, nothing has changed."

Violet nodded. "You need to sleep, you need to eat, and you must try not to worry. It isn't good for the baby."

"I'm not sure I can help it at this point." Mary stopped outside her door. "Granny..."

They were interrupted by Emily emerging from the nursery staircase with Lily. "M'lady." Emily curtseyed to them both. "She just woke up and she's ever so hungry. I was taking her to the kitchen to make her something, if that's all right, m'lady?"

"Of course." Mary reflexively reached for Lily and kissed the soft hair atop her head. Even as Lily coughed, Mary noted her eyes, which had been a flat grey when she awoke, were blue again, and her cheeks were a natural, warm pink. _Thank God, _Mary thought. _She's really better. _ She could not stop feeling as if something would happen to Lily if she wasn't there, but she knew she was being utterly ridiculous. "Will you go with Emily for a proper breakfast?" The little maid reached her arms to Lily with a smile, and after a slight pause, Lily went to her, which both pleased and disappointed Mary. "Please bring her to me before lunch."

"Yes, m'lady." The young girl curtseyed and walked away, murmuring sweetly to Lily. _How soft her voice is, _Mary thought. _How gently she holds her._ And the nervousness she felt at watching Lily being borne away from her disappeared.

* * *

><p>Even the dog seemed to know what had happened. She followed Matthew quietly to the hallway telephone, her nose pushing against his hand until he patted her briefly, and then she settled next to him as he stared down at the receiver. Isis had accepted this, but he had not, and yet he had to do it, had to do his duty.<p>

_Are you a creature of duty?_

He had no idea why that had flown back into his mind.

* * *

><p>She knew she should change, but suddenly all she wanted was bed and darkness and quiet and she slipped under the blankets.<p>

Violet smoothed the coverlet over her and perched on the edge of the bed. "My dear," she began with tears in her eyes. "You must take care of yourself, and you must take care of him. Don't let him take on too much. He'll try to, I know, but you must help him. Your sisters.." She stopped for a moment. "I suppose Sybil will go back to university. Perhaps Rosamund could take Edith for a bit. Or your grandmother in America."

Mary frowned. "Why are you trying to get rid of them?"

Violet looked offended. "I'm not, my dear. It's just that your duty is to think about the Earl and not your sisters for the time being. And you need to think about the baby. Both babies," she added. She paused, seeming to struggle for words, and Mary reached out for her hand. "This is a very difficult time, Mary. It is always hard for the new Earl, but this... his mother gone... you must be strong for him. He will think he can do this on his own, but he cannot."

"Granny," Mary whispered, and sat up. "I'm so sorry.. Papa..."

Violet squeezed her hand and suddenly the two who had been the strongest were holding each other, tears mixing on the cheeks that pressed together. _How fragile she is, _Mary thought, and realized with another wave of agony that this was the third time Granny had been through this changing of the guard. Once with her husband when his father died, then again with her son, and now with Matthew. "Granny?" she asked, and Violet's heart contracted at the smallness in her voice. "Will you help me?"

Violet patted her cheek and gently pushed Mary back into the pillows. "We'll talk when you wake up," she said softly, and tucked the blankets under Mary's chin.

Mary nodded sleepily, and the last thing she remembered hearing was Granny muttering something about Travis.

* * *

><p>He had lost track of who had telephoned, and whom he needed to telephone. The morticians were upstairs with Carson and Armstrong. Travis was coming later to discuss the funerals. Edith and Sybil were sending the telegrams to the extended family and friends. He'd already notified the papers. The estate's lawyers would be coming from London tomorrow. That such things had to be handled quickly was both understandable and ghastly. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to talk to Robert, to ask him what to do, and the fact that he was the reason for this, that the one person who would understand how he felt was the very reason he felt this way... it was too much. He looked down at the desk, at the place where Robert worked, at the list in front of him, and his eyes swam with tears for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. His throat ached from holding back the sobs, and he shut his eyes, his fists against them, trying to block out the image that kept flying into his mind, his mother, struggling to breathe, telling him she loved him, loved Mary, loved Lily, and that he would be fine.<p>

_I will not be fine. Mother... _

He could not help but think of this as a punishment, for surviving, for abandoning his men when he should have done his duty, gone to his death with them, or for not mourning Lavinia properly, or for... Mary's face suddenly flashed in front of him, the image of her in his arms, her hand on her belly..

_Are you a creature of duty?_

_No._

The magnitude of the problem now facing them both struck him like a bullet, hurting nearly as much as the shell fragments that shattered his leg.

Mary was not yet his wife, and propriety, even in wartime, even now, dictated that they could not marry for months. He dimly remembered a university friend's wedding before the war, in which the ceremony was put off for six months after a death in the family.

_No._

Three months, two months, even a single month would be disastrous in their case, if what they suspected was true, and they couldn't wait to determine if it was true.

They couldn't wait, and now... _punished. _

He wanted Mary, wanted to hold her and comfort her, and take comfort from her, but he knew she was resting, knew she needed her rest, knew he needed to be strong for her, only... He let his head collapse in his arms, on the desk, and for the first time that day, he cried.

* * *

><p><em>She knew it was a dream, but Richard seemed so real, so like himself. "Hello, my dear," he whispered as he sat down across from her, at her desk, in what was once his room. "I like what you've done in here."<em>

_She had no voice with which to answer him. _

"_It's all right," he continued. "I'm only here to help."_

_A cry startled her, and she looked down at the floor to see a baby in a basket, not Lily, not any child she had ever seen, staring back at her with dark eyes. "There you are," a soft voice said and she looked up to see Isobel in Richard's place. "It's all right," Isobel murmured. "I'm only here to help." _

_Her eyes burned with tears, and she looked back at the baby to see that it had grown, that it was sitting up, standing up, trying to walk, reaching for something she could not see, and it toddled away, laughing as it reached its goal on the other side of the desk. _

_And now, it was a strawberry blonde woman in the chair, with wide blue eyes and a sad smile. "It's all right," Lavinia said. "I'm only here to help."_

_A loud cry made everything go black._

She awoke with a start, the darkened room now lit by the light from the hallway.

"I'm ever so sorry, m'lady. You said you wanted Lady Lily before lunch. I think she might be ready for a nap."

_Lady Lily. Dear God._

"Yes, of course, Emily. Thank you." She sat up and held out her arms, and the petulant, tired sobs that had awakened her stopped as Lily settled against her. "How is she?"

"Still coughing, but she's ever so much better, m'lady. She ate a big breakfast and lunch, and we quite spoiled her down in the kitchen. She's a lovely baby, m'lady, ever so sweet."

_Yes she is, _Mary thought to herself as she saw how carefully and prettily the baby was dressed, her face and hands perfectly clean. Emily was right, she was ready for a nap, her eyes already closing. "Sleepy girl," she breathed. "Sleepy, sleepy Lily."

It took only a few minutes, and Lily was soon on her way back to the nursery, asleep in Emily's arms, and Mary wondered as she crawled out of bed and was promptly sick in her bathroom, if it didn't make sense to buck tradition and take on a sixteen-year-old as nanny rather than one of those terrifying old women she'd grown up with. Emily was already such a help...

She froze, and the dream came back to her. _Why?_

_Richard? Lavinia? Isobel? _

She choked down some water and wiped her mouth, her hand shaking. _Help._ Her stomach heaved, and she fought it with everything she had, but it was no good and she was sick again, painfully so, and all she wanted to do was cry as she leaned back against the cold wall. She wanted Matthew, wanted to sob in his arms, but she knew she couldn't, knew she needed to be strong for him, and so she let herself cry on her bathroom floor, alone.

* * *

><p>The first thing she was aware of was being warm, wrapped almost like a baby in what must be the softest bed in which she'd ever slept. The second was a cool hand touching her forehead and she opened her eyes to see Lady Mary smiling down at her.<p>

"M'lady," Anna's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Shh," Mary replied. "Rest. I just wanted to make sure you were being taken care of."

Anna struggled to sit up. "I.. what happened?"

"You have the 'flu, but you're going to be just fine."

Anna's eyes closed again, the effort to keep them open almost too much. "M'lady, is Lily.. Miss Crawley all right? "

Mary nodded. "You two were very lucky." Her hand slipped into Anna's. "I'm so glad you're all right, Anna."

Something in that voice made Anna go cold and she worked her way into a sitting position, half-slumped on the pillows. Mary was shaking, unnaturally so, and Anna reached out to her, violating the only rule, unspoken but known, that had ever existed between them. "Mary," she whispered.

* * *

><p>Armstrong had entered the library twice, each time backing away when he noticed his lordship crying, knowing he could not let him know he'd witnessed such a thing. This time, fortunately for both of them, his lordship had stopped and was back to writing.<p>

"Yes, Armstrong?"

"Was your lordship planning on eating?"

"Yes, of course. When..." He suddenly realized that was up to him. "Is Lady Mary awake?"

"Yes, m'lord. She's with Smith. Would you like the luncheon in the dining room? Or would you prefer a tray?"

_Decisions,_ he thought to himself. _A lifetime ahead of.. _"Dining room, I should think. Thank you, Armstrong."

The valet nodded and slipped out, leaving Matthew to wonder who was actually running the house.

* * *

><p>He couldn't have timed it better if he tried, Armstrong thought, as he turned the corner with the tray in hand. Bates was a flight ahead of him on the staircase, and Armstrong caught up to him just as he reached the first floor. "Mr. Bates," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."<p>

The older man's eyes were red, and his only response was a nod.

"Miss Smith is much better," Armstrong continued. "I'm just going to check on her now, if you'd care to help me open the door."

That Bates did not ask where to go as he led the way into the south gallery did not surprise Armstrong. What did surprise him was that in the few days Smith had been back at Downton, the pair of them had exchanged barely a single word, and if his sources and his own eyes were to be believed, for two people deeply in love, that was a unicorn if ever there was one. It wasn't as if the original barrier to their happiness still existed. John Bates was divorced now, fully and officially, and he felt sure Smith knew it.

Luckily, they had him.

He had a tray, and an excuse to go into her room, and a reason to have Bates help him.

He could do no more, he thought, as he knocked softly on the door and announced himself.

* * *

><p>This was getting ridiculous, Mary thought, as she closed the door behind her, against her better judgment, and turned to look up at Armstrong. "What did you need to tell me?"<p>

"Only that his lordship requested luncheon in the dining room."

"And that required coming out into the hallway and leaving my maid in there?" She looked up at the tall man. "What are you about?"

"Will you be joining his lordship?"

"Yes," she said impatiently. "Armstrong, I asked you a question."

He paused as if listening for something. "M'lady, it's just that.. people ought to have what makes them happy. Especially now."

She could find no answer to that. "Tell his lordship I'll join him for luncheon." And as he walked away, she wondered what Carson thought about this new valet, and if Matthew knew he'd hired a romantic.

* * *

><p>It was a wretched luncheon.<p>

Not the food, of course, although no one at that table could have named a single course. No, it was the silence, the weight of what had happened and what was yet to come. Violet had ordered trays for Edith and Sybil, who were finally sleeping after a morning of telegrams and letters, so it was only Matthew, Mary and Violet at that long, dark table. Matthew had walked into the dining room alone and blanched at the settings, knowing he was expected to sit at the head, and could barely bring himself to do it. Mary came in quietly, grey-faced and shivering, and sat to his left. He could tell the food was making her sick, but still she sat, as straight and strong as her grandmother, dutifully...

_Are you a creature of duty?_

He could not get that five-year-old image out of his mind. Christ, how young they'd been, how stupid, he thought, and then the far stupider thing they'd done flashed in his head and he looked at Mary, who was warily regarding the pudding placed in front of her. "Your solicitor called. He's coming on the one o'clock tomorrow." He forked up a piece of a rather fragile tart and watched it crumble. "I didn't realize you needed him."

She looked surprised. "It must be that offer on the papers."

Matthew put down his fork. "The papers?"

"Yes. Someone Richard knew made an offer last week."

"You're selling the papers?"

"I think I should."

"No."

The sharpness of his tone cut through the room, causing Violet's head to jerk up. Mary's spoon stopped in mid-air. "Matthew?"

"You shouldn't sell them."

"I don't see why not."

"Mary, I don't want things to change."

She put down her spoon. "Matthew, they did change." He looked horrible, his eyes a glacial grey inside dark sockets, eyes that bored into her coldly in a way she had never known. "Selling them is the only option. I can't run them from here."

"Then we won't live here."

"Matthew, don't be ridiculous. You have to live here."

His fork clattered on the tabletop as he dropped it. "I don't want you to turn into a.. I don't want you to lose.." He could not find the words to tell her, to make her understand that _he _understood. "You've got to stop giving up your life for me."

"Matthew, I'm not giving up my life. My life is here now."

"But you didn't want it to be."

"That was before." She reached for his hand, but he pulled it back. "The newspapers... when I had nothing and no one, knowing that I had a responsibility for every word published, every person who worked on them, every copy sold... it gave me something to do. Something that seemed to matter."

"It still matters."

"Yes," she said softly. "But I can't be responsible for every word now. Not even if we lived in London. Not now, not with everything... don't you understand, Matthew?"

"Am I not making myself clear, Mary?"

Even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were wrong.

Mary's face went white, terrifyingly so, and she stood slowly, her fingers gripping the edge of the table, and Violet could not tell if she was going to be sick or faint. Her eyes glittered as she stared down at Matthew, who rose automatically, his gaze locked on hers. "Granny," Mary said quietly. "Please excuse me."

She did not know how she made it through the door, into the saloon, everything shrinking in front of her eyes to tunnels of light, blood roaring in her ears as she crossed the carpet. _Library, sit, fire, quiet _was all she could comprehend in her mind, even as she could hear Matthew's steps behind her. Carson loomed in front of her, suddenly, and she nearly lost what little balance she had. "We'll be in the library, Carson. Can you make sure we're not disturbed?" Her voice sounded weak, far away, thick with something, and she could not see Carson's nod through the tears as she pushed open the door and stumbled to the settee in front of the fire, her arm flinging his away as she sank into the velvet and closed her eyes.

She felt him sit next to her, felt his fingers take hers, and wondered why his hands were so cold. "Matthew..." she began.

"Please," he said. "Mary, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I only... you've given up so much. I don't want you to feel it's a duty... I just don't want you to regret anything."

She did not open her eyes. "Matthew, you know me well enough to know I won't ever do as I'm told. If I was going to regret it, I wouldn't do it."

His hand grazed across her stomach. "Do you regret this?"

Her eyes opened slowly and she carefully tipped her head toward him, knowing if she moved any faster, she would be sick. "If I was going to regret it, I wouldn't do it," she repeated. "We're not going to argue about this. I do have a duty... several of them, as a matter of fact. So do you. This," she said, and covered his hand with hers. "Lily. You. My sisters. Granny. This estate. The properties in London, the papers... I need to shed at least one of those duties. I'm selling the papers."

"If you're sure," he whispered, and lifted her hand to his mouth.

"I am sure," she replied. _He looks so tired,_ she thought with a pang. "You haven't slept."

He shook his head. "No time, I'm afraid."

"What about now?"

"Travis is coming at four."

She looked at the clock. "It's two, Matthew."

His shoulders slumped and he leaned back into the cushions. "I can't stop."

"What is there to do?"

"Everything," he began, and closed his eyes. "I don't know."

And he felt her hands tug at him, pull him down into her lap, her hands brushing back his hair, hypnotically stroking his forehead. "Sleepy Matthew," she crooned. "Sleepy, sleepy Matthew."

* * *

><p>Not even Carson could keep Violet out of the library, and she ensconced herself in the settee opposite the Earl and her granddaughter, his golden head in her lap, hands entwined, faces slack in sleep. <em>So young,<em> she thought, and they were mere children to her, yet war and loss and love had left their marks on both of them. The clock chimed three, but they were so deep in sleep they did not move, and so Violet settled in to wait for Travis. She knew the vicar would try to get out of doing his duty to this estate and so she would make him, propriety be damned. Mary and Matthew _would_ be married tomorrow or the next day, no matter what she had to do to make it happen.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Again, I can't adequately express my gratitude for everyone's reviews and encouragement. _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 12?**

She needn't have bothered, Violet realized, as the clock struck five and the Earl of Grantham's face told the vicar that he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Travis would be marrying them in the morning, before the funerals in three days' time, before the solicitors arrived, before anyone arrived. "I will not start out my life without her by my side," Matthew told Travis, glaring in such a way that even Violet felt a little.. well.. _chastened. _Matthew pointed out the banns had already been read, made a case that to deny them was to deny the estate its rights, to deny Lady Lily one more day without two proper parents was a sin, and to act as if propriety, especially at the end of such a horror as the Great War, was a deterrent to be taken seriously could not be tolerated, and Travis could find no valid argument upon which to stand; in fact, he made no argument at all, only nodded, and said that the appropriate time would be after nine in the morning. "A minimum of two witnesses," he murmured. "I will see you then."

Travis could not stay to dinner, claiming a prior engagement, which Violet doubted, but appreciated his tact as he left, escorted by Carson. As the door shut behind them, her eyes fell to Matthew, standing by the fireplace. "Well done, my boy," she said softly.

He glanced at her, nodded in acknowledgement, but did not say a word. He was too intent on watching Mary, who had closed her eyes as soon as Travis left, her body slumping back again into the velvet cushions. "Darling," he whispered. "You do agree, don't you?"

"Of course," she murmured back and smiled slightly. "It sounds so odd... Lady Lily."

"I think that's the first time I've said it," he replied. "Do you think he knows?"

Violet's _harrumph _made Matthew grin for what felt like the first time in years. "Does it matter? The deed will be done. And I didn't even have to remind him that his own grandson was an eight months' baby." She stood up. "I will see you two tomorrow morning with your sisters at the church."

"Granny, won't you stay for dinner?"

"No, my dear." She reached down and gently touched Mary's cheek, and smiled down as her granddaughter briefly opened her eyes. "You all need rest, and I think the servants could use a quiet night. I'm going up to explain things to your sisters. Not all things," she said as Mary's eyes widened. "That's entirely up to you. Rosamund is coming tonight, if you don't mind putting her up?"

"She must stay here, of course," Matthew said. Violet's eyes raised to his again, and a flash of gratitude struck him as she nodded approvingly at him, a flash of gratitude that felt instantly disloyal and he pushed it away as he watched the Dowager Countess walk out. He turned back to Mary, and a pang of fear struck him as he looked at her, saw the shadows under her eyes, the slight shake in her hands as she pushed back an invisible hair from her face. "Mary, are you sure you're all right?"

"I just need more sleep," she replied. "And food, although I can't imagine eating anything." Her eyes peeled open again and she stared up at the ceiling. "How are we going to do this?"

"Do what?" He sat down next to her, taking her cold hand in his.

"Everything."

"I don't know," he muttered.

"Rice pudding," she said.

His head turned to hers. "What?"

"I could stand rice pudding," she mused, and he found himself smiling sadly as he kissed her forehead.

* * *

><p>She could stand rice pudding, and buttered bread, and milky sweet tea, and even a few mouthfuls of the rather lovely chicken and potatoes Mrs. Patmore sent up. She was eyeing the tray and wondering if she shouldn't have more rice pudding when Sybil came in.<p>

"May I come in?"

"You're already in," Mary said, and waved to the chair. "You might want to start thinking about knocking after tomorrow."

"What changes tomorrow?" Sybil asked, and nibbled at a piece of bread from Mary's tray as a soft knock startled them both.

"Who is it?" Mary called out.

"It's me," Edith replied.

"Come in," Mary said, and looked pointedly at Sybil. "See? Manners."

Edith looked somewhat perplexed, but also a little pleased. "Did you get any sleep, Mary?"

"A little. Did you?"

Edith nodded and peered at the tray. "Why rice pudding? I didn't get rice pudding."

"Do you want rice pudding?"

"I hate rice pudding."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Then why ask about it?"

"I don't know." Edith looked affronted. "I just wondered why rice pudding." She glanced at Mary. "And why you're getting married tomorrow instead of waiting."

"Edith, don't. They just want to be able to face all this together."

"But I don't see why they have to be married right away."

"You have to be married for a child to be legitimate," Mary said quietly.

She'd expected to feel sick at this moment, but strangely she didn't as she stared at her sisters, at their twin looks of utter shock, and almost laughed. "Darlings, I never thought you looked alike until just now."

"But Lily is... Oh." Sybil's eyes dropped.

"A baby?" Edith breathed. "Oh, Mary." And she couldn't have shocked Mary more as she took her sister's hand. "A baby."

"You had to have..." Sybil frowned.

"Stop it," Mary said. "Yes, we did, and that's what happens. Maybe. We're not sure. Let that be a lesson to you both." But she was smiling, mostly at Edith, who looked so unutterably happy at the news that it broke Mary's heart.

"Do you want a boy or girl? Of course you want a boy," Edith murmured.

"Of course I want a boy," Mary replied. "I have a little girl."

* * *

><p>That little girl was tucked into the crook of her father's arm in the nursery, listening to Goldilocks for the third time. She showed no signs of being the slightest bit sleepy, but Matthew was incredibly drowsy, and he was fairly certain the very young kitchen maid had nodded off at least once. "Emily," he said softly. "I'll take her down to Lady Mary's room. I may not bring her back. Is there something I'll need to take with me?"<p>

* * *

><p>He did not bother to knock, which was greeted with a surprising snort of laughter as he walked in with Lily. The girls were curled up on Mary's bed, and Lily let out a hoarse cry at the sight of Mary, and almost jumped from his arms. "Someone feels much better," he said as he handed her to Mary.<p>

"But she sounds dreadful," Mary crooned. "Hello, my girl."

Sybil burst into tears, and somewhere in between the sobs, the fact that Mamma had always called each of them "my girl" came out, which started a fresh round of tears from Edith, which then set off Lily, of course, and then she felt Matthew's hand on her shoulder. She wanted to weep, of course, for her sisters to have lost both parents, for her beloved Matthew to have lost his mother, for Lily who would never know her grandparents, but mostly, and she thought quite selfishly, for herself and all she had lost. Yet her eyes were still dry and it struck her, suddenly and coldly, that save for Granny and Rosamund, this small room contained all she had. _This is my family now._

* * *

><p>The girls left Mary with a wide-awake Lily in her arms, and a very quiet Matthew in the chair. Edith had dragged a slightly disapproving Sybil from the room, muttering something about gates, which made Mary laugh. "I know I'm supposed to be just like Granny, but Edith..." She trailed off. Matthew had not looked up from the rug when they'd left, not made a sound in some time. His eyes had that odd, haunted look again, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was. <em>Overwhelmed,<em> she thought, and an unpleasant idea that had been floating in her head came back. "Matthew?"

His head was slow to rise, and he did not speak.

"You asked if I regretted this."

He nodded.

"Do you?"

"No."

It hung in the air, spoken too quickly, its veracity unclear by the very speed of its delivery. She looked away just as quickly, holding Lily a little tighter, the sweet face blurring in front of her eyes as she kissed Lily's forehead. _No. _Of course he regretted it. It was hard enough for him to come back from Germany, from that dreadful ordeal, from his wounds. To lose his mother, to be faced with all this responsibility and to have to beg to be married because they'd been so reckless, because she'd.. _I should have behaved, I should have been the strong one. _Her eyes burned, but still she could not cry.

* * *

><p><em>She is the most beautiful thing on earth, <em>he thought to himself, something not quite real, some priceless French or Italian rendering of the Madonna and Child, and he could not let anything happen to her. She filled him with light and hope crashing against the darkness, his love for her the only right thing, the only real thing he could feel. There had been a question, and he'd answered it, but he was not sure he'd said the right word. "No," he said again, louder this time, and rubbed his eyes to stop the burning of tears he could not let fall in front of her. _She needs me to be strong._

* * *

><p>She ached for him, his fists scrubbing at his eyes as if he was a little boy, trying not to cry, as she watched Lily begin to droop. She swayed, humming softly, hoping she could put Lily down so she could.. <em>What? <em>She did not know what came next, how to face the fact that whatever they had felt, whatever they did feel was now tainted by this tragedy and a disastrous forced wedding in the middle of it. _God, what was she thinking? Why did she.._ But the answer came as quickly as his. _I love him, _she thought, just as Lily began to cough again.

* * *

><p>The sound shook him out of his half-dream, the brutal racking making him go quite cold, and he remembered the small jar and spoon he'd slipped into his pocket before coming downstairs.<p>

"It's honey," Matthew said as he poured it out. "She said it would soothe the cough."

Lily looked suspiciously at the spoon, and Mary had to bite back a giggle. "Lily, darling, please." The rosebud mouth opened and at the first taste of the honey her eyes widened. She took the second spoonful happily, and, for the first time since Christmas, she smiled up at Mary, revealing a barely-there, tiny, white tooth.

And the sight of it loosened something inside Mary, the grin that answered her little girl dissolving into tears as Lily's eyes closed in sleep, and she could barely see Matthew as he gently lifted his daughter from her arms and put her in the cot, and then it was his arms around her as the floodgates opened and she finally wept, his cheeks as wet as hers as he held her. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I shouldn't have... I should have been stronger, it's too much for you, for us."

"You shouldn't have.." And his blood ran cold as he realized what she was thinking. "Mary, you can't think this... that we shouldn't have. Not for my sake, surely?"

She clung to him, her face buried in his neck. "You don't?"

"Nothing," he whispered fiercely. "Nothing matters to me except the people in this room, all of them." His hand touched her belly. "If this house fell down around us, if I had nothing else but you and Lily, and God willing, this baby... I would consider myself the luckiest man on earth. God help me, Mary, but I would give up all we have lost to have you."

"God help us both," she whispered.

* * *

><p>She awoke in the grey-lit hour, alone, the cot empty and a note on her pillow telling her Lily was back in the nursery, and that he would see her at the church promptly at nine. "<em>We need as much luck as we can get, so I won't see you until then,"<em> he wrote, and despite the misery of loss, she smiled at that, and rang for someone to help her dress.

When Anna appeared, she burst into tears.

* * *

><p>There was no one to give her away, no flowers adorning the church, no family save for Granny and Sybil and Edith and Rosamund. Much debate had gone into whether Lily ought to come, until her cough settled the fact that she would stay home. Anna had, despite being still far too weak to stand for long, dressed her hair, insisting no one else should touch it on this day, but had left the rest of it to the young housemaid who had been training under O'Brien. "Married in blue, your love will be true," Granny murmured approvingly as Mary shed her overcoat in the back of the church and smoothed the front of the pale dress and adjusted the aquamarine necklace before her eyes rose to meet Matthew's at the end of the aisle.<p>

_...an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union... first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee... and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly... but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God. _

_(God help us both...)_

_First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord..._

_(Please...)_

_Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body._

_(Gift, indeed...)_

_Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. _

_(In all things she has been this to me... )_

_Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?_

_(All this he has done for me and more... )_

"I will."

_Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?_

_(I only hope I am worthy of her...)_

"I will."

_I, Matthew, take thee Mary..._

_I, Mary, take thee Matthew..._

_to my wedded Wife... to my wedded Husband... __to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish..._

_..and to obey.._

_till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth... _

… _I give thee my troth._

_With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen._

_Let us pray._

_(The words I have heard before, for friends, for myself, head bowed, and yet this time I want to sing them to the sky...)_

_Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. _

_(I have never truly heard these words before... )_

_Forasmuch as Matthew and Mary have __consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen._

_God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you; and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen._

* * *

><p>It was just as well no one felt like celebrating, for as soon as luncheon was over, it was as if it was an ordinary business day and not their wedding day. Matthew was in the library with the estate solicitors, who had arrived just after one o'clock. Allan Cooke, Richard's longtime solicitor, had taken a later train, citing the need to collect some documents, and so he was not ushered into the small study until well after three o'clock. He murmured his condolences to Mary, and his congratulations, and asked if she had any other business before discussing the offer.<p>

"I need..." She paused. "I need to plan for all possibilities." He nodded and she did not need to finish that sentence, did not need to say out loud what she could not let Matthew know she was thinking, did not need to elaborate that her will must be changed immediately. Richard's will had tied up her money so that no future husband could touch it, and it was of the utmost importance now that it be clear how it would be divided if... She did not let herself dwell on it. Death was too close, too real, and as much as she shrugged off Matthew's fear of her dying as Lavinia had, she could not ignore that it was always a possibility. If the worst did happen, she wanted to ensure he would be financially secure, the estate would be safe, her sisters would have their own money, and Lily would never know what it meant to be in a waiting room. Her life would always be her own.

"Of course," Cooke murmured. "First things first, however." He reached into his case and retrieved a cream-colored envelope.

"The offer?" she asked as she took it.

"No," he replied. "It was given to me a year ago, to be given to you if... or when... you decided to sell the newspapers."

She should have recognized the handwriting, of course, her name _Mary_ in a brash sweep of ink across the heavy paper. Never the title, always slightly improper.

It was from Richard.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: So it is finished. Thank you all for your lovely reviews, your gentle nudging, and if you nominated it for Highclere Awards, or if you voted for it... an even bigger thank you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. _

* * *

><p><strong>Never Such Innocence Again 1313**

The cream-colored envelope lay untouched through her meeting with Cooke, during which time the provisions for all possibilities were laid out in cold detail, the money each sister would receive upon her death, Lily's rather vast portion, the sums set aside for the servants, including what Cooke considered a far too generous allotment for Anna, and finally Matthew's share, which was to be dedicated to the maintenance and upkeep of Downton and any children they might produce. She did not go into further detail with Cooke on that score, doubting his discretion. He estimated her future income, both with and without the newspapers, and remarked in that coolly irritating way he had (had he picked it up from Richard or the other way round?) that no matter what she chose to do, the Crawleys were not to be one of the families that fell in the wake of the Great War.

She slipped the letter into her pocket when Cooke left. He had declined dinner, as had the estate's' solicitors, and Carson informed her that her sisters were dining with the Dowager Countess and staying the night, therefore it would only be the Earl and herself. She smiled sadly at that thoughtfulness, thinking it wasn't much of a honeymoon, but it touched her nonetheless. "Trays tonight, Carson. Thank you."

She realized as she opened the door to her room that "tray" was perhaps more likely, because it was no longer her room, the armoire open and empty, the dressing table gone, the bed stripped bare. She vaguely remembered Anna saying something about moving her things into the Grey Room, her grandfather's room, where Matthew now slept, and a now-familiar heat rose in her, reminding her of what this day represented. "Quite a wedding day," she murmured as the door opened behind her.

* * *

><p>Matthew's head ached.<p>

Wills, deeds, letters of patent, death duties, papers, papers, and more papers had crossed under his pen that day and his eyes smarted from reading so much. He noted sadly that while the finances were now in good order, thanks to Mary paying the taxes last year, now the death duties would be a burden. He did not want to trouble Mary with talk of money, but if they were not to sell off any of the estate, he very well might have to. He rubbed his eyes and when they opened, he was surprised by who stood before him.

* * *

><p>"But that's wonderful!"<p>

Anna could not stop the smile from splitting her face, even as the tears rushed down her cheeks. "I know it's sudden, m'lady, but.. I won't leave until I've trained someone up proper."

"Anna, don't worry about that. Of course I wouldn't want anyone you hadn't approved of and trained, but..." Mary's smile matched Anna's, and her hand grasped hers. "When?"

"Soon," Anna replied. "He'll know tomorrow if the offer's been accepted."

* * *

><p>"But that's wonderful!"<p>

Bates dipped his head briefly. "Thank you, m'lord. It had come up as a possibility before his lordship died, but now it seems the right time. And Miss Smith has agreed, so..."

"You'll let me know if you need any help with the conveyancing?" Matthew sat back and smiled at Bates. "The Grantham Arms. You'll do well with it. And with Smith at your side..."

* * *

><p>"And you won't be far away."<p>

Anna shook her head, still overcome with emotion. She looked around. "I'll miss this room, m'lady. I won't remember you've moved."

"I hope I will," Mary murmured. "You were here when I moved from the nursery." _Good God, _Mary thought, and she remembered the tiny, awkward, blonde underhousemaid who had turned her head so as not to be noticed when Mary swanned into her new bedroom, the one who did everything so efficiently, the girl who watched silently as Lady Grantham's maid would style Mary's hair, the young woman who simply took over the care of Mary when O'Brien arrived, and then the other girls as they grew up, the friend she had become, the only one who knew her secrets, the only one who always knew everything. To lose that... and yet if it meant Anna's happiness, if it meant she would feel even one half of the love Mary now knew... She squeezed Anna's hand again. "I'm losing the best ladies' maid in all of England and it's the loveliest news I've had all day."

Anna squeezed back and grinned. "I would think second loveliest, m'lady."

* * *

><p>The fire was blazing by the time Mary walked into the Grey Room, Lily half-asleep in her arms. She had fully intended to leave her upstairs, but the baby had clung to her, and while she was still sick, Mary did not want to deny her anything. She noted her dressing table was now in place, that her things were in the armoires, and she smiled at the view of Matthew's dressing room and the narrow bed inside. If she had anything to say about it..<p>

_I hope you know really smart people sleep in separate rooms._

The memory jolted her, and she sank into the chair next to the fire, just as Lily made one last attempt to keep her eyes open before falling completely asleep. Mary's heart beat erratically as she pulled out the cream-colored envelope, and carefully opened it. She could face it here, she thought, with Lily.

_My dear, _

_You're asleep as I write this, and I feel quite foolish for leaving such a letter with Cooke. After all, I'm only going to France for a few days, and not even to a dangerous area. Nevertheless, as Cooke is constantly reminding me, I should always prepare for the worst. If you're reading this, the worst has happened, and you're now thinking of selling the newspapers. I do hope, for your sake, that you did keep them for a little while. I often imagine... imagined.. you in those board meetings, your beautiful eyebrows rising just so.. _

_Oh, my darling. There. I have never called you that, and you will think me silly and foolish for doing so now. You'll have to forgive an old man in love, for I am in love, far more than you know, and far more than I believe you love me. And yet, as I stare at you now, tonight, your lovely face relaxed in sleep, I fancy you might have begun to love me a little. These past few months in our new home... I think we've begun.. had begun, I suppose if you're reading this.._

The paper was marked, as if it had been wet.

.._to build something, hadn't we? I do wish we'd had a child, though. You deny your maternal instincts with a snort and a wave of your hand, but I have watched you when a pram goes by, and the hunger in your eyes... I had hoped that even if you never really loved me the way I loved you, you would love our child._

_Never mind. This wasn't meant to be maudlin. This is about what to do with the newspapers, and I'm only here to help._

And Mary's own tears marked the page as she read Richard's advice, his careful outline of the possible bidders, the ideal sum for which to settle, and what she should tell the editors.

_I do hope you're selling for a good reason, and not just because you find dealing with Cooke as irritating as I do. That will serve him right if he's reading this. Perhaps you've found someone else to marry, although he would have to be quite extraordinary, I think, to make you want to relinquish any of the power your inheritance will give you. You did joke to me once that all you'd ever wanted was to be left alone in a lovely house. I don't believe you meant it, but if you're reading this, I've given you the means to grant your wish. May you be happy, with my love._

_Richard._

As Lily stirred against her, she dropped a kiss on the blonde head, noting for the first time a faint strawberry tint on the gold. Richard wasn't the only one who had seen inside her long before she saw inside herself, and she cried for Isobel and for Lavinia, who had given her such gifts, and one last time for Richard, who had made and who would continue to make all things possible.

* * *

><p>He was grateful Mary had decided on not dressing for dinner. He could not imagine formality this evening, even if it was just the two of them. He knew at some point they would have to bend to formality and tradition, all the things the Earl and Countess of Grantham should do to be a force for good in the county.. <em>Good God, <em>he thought. One month ago, he was coming out of the mouth of hell. One month ago, he was being questioned by intelligence officers whose names he would never learn, with accents that spoke of Eton first, and then the darkest streets of the East End, faces that he could not remember, would never remember, and did not want to remember. Two months ago, it was Germany, never to rest, never to be anything but that stuttering, stupid, shellshocked man, forever waiting for someone to realize he was a fraud.

_Fraud._

He had expected years of practice to become the Earl, but he was not to have such practice, and oddly, it felt rather like it had in Germany, when he had no choice but to play the part until it became as real to him as the truth. He supposed it would be the same here, as he felt his way through his new role. In Germany, he had nothing to lean on, save the code name of Halo and a small cloth dog. Here, he had Armstrong, Carson, Mrs. Hughes, an army of servants, Cousin Violet... He smiled at that thought, at the idea that the one he had once thought would never be on his side was now a champion, a guide.. a grandmother, where he had never known one. Most of all, he thought as he opened the door to his room and came upon a sight that took every bit of pain and stress and exhaustion away from him, he had his child.. children, God willing.

And he had Mary.

She was asleep by the fire, Lily curled against her, and he wondered again at how it had all been wrong, how she had married Richard, how he had married Lavinia, how they had been so stubborn, and yet, after all the tragedy and loss, it was somehow right. He should feel guilty, but looking at Mary holding Lily, he could feel nothing other than love and a deep-seated peace.

* * *

><p>She awoke to a second golden head resting upon her, this one Matthew's against her knee. He said nothing as she tangled her fingers in his hair, merely turning and placing his lips upon her knee. "How is the estate?" she asked softly. "Is it a good thing I'm selling the newspapers?"<p>

"Oh, Mary," he whispered. "Am I ready? Are you?"

"My darling," she replied. "Are we ever?"

And as the fire leapt and danced, he rang for Armstrong, who brought Emily so that Lily might be put to bed, and after a quiet dinner in _their _room, they were dressed for bed, as if they had been in this room for a year, five years, a dozen, and then they were alone, in _their_ room.

_Theirs._

And whatever else might be difficult, whatever else they might be unsure of, this would never be anything but sure, his hands at her side, her back, lifting her up so that her legs wrapped around him, her lips locking against his throat as he walked across the room, as he put her down on _their_ bed, his mouth finding hers as his fingers tore apart her gown, and she ripped at his pyjamas until it was just her skin against his, her hips curving into his as he thrust into her and their eyes, open and glittering, met, and without saying it, without ever saying it, they knew that nothing that they had known before had been like this, and nothing would ever matter as this had, as this did, the rhythm perfect as their bodies met again and again. They could be no closer and yet they tried as they moved against each other until she shuddered first, her body stilling just as he broke and it was her name he called, his name she breathed as they held on, slick with sweat as they slowed, let go, relaxed until they were limp, twined together, bound as they always should have been.

* * *

><p>It was done.<p>

She was now the former owner of a stable of newspapers, the new owner a longtime friend of Richard's who had offered exactly the sum he'd advised in the letter as the right price, and she wondered absently if they'd planned this. The papers were signed, the deed done, and she felt, even in her current condition, a definite lightness at the loss of such a burden, never mind that the influx of cash meant they did not have to sell either Grantham House or her home in Belgrave Square. Sybil and Edith had moved into Grantham, along with two of Sybil's university friends who had readily agreed to pay for living expenses in exchange for accommodation. Mary wondered what they thought of their new home, especially since she'd seen what they called home their first term. The widow of a longtime associate of Matthew's was staying with them as chaperone, at which Sybil chafed, but Edith did not mind in the slightest. She was thrilled at the prospect of a home with a car and a garage, and Rosamund had already hinted at Edith's newfound popularity with a rather prominent driving club, so in the end, seeing Edith drive off to a hill climb with Lord Something or Other was another weight off her back.

The Belgravia house would be hers and Matthew's, and eventually Lily's, she thought as she wandered the upstairs hall after the doctor had left. She imagined London seasons to come, the rooms so perfectly suited to parties, Campbell already planning this year's events. It would be a quieter one for them, she thought as she let her hand rest briefly on the slight, newly-emerged curve, confirmation beyond what her London doctor had told her and what she had suspected... _known_... so quickly. She stopped in front of a door and steeled herself as she opened it, to a room preserved since that terrible day nearly four months ago.

Like Matthew's rooms had been before, Isobel's were suspended in time, as if she would return, and Mary's eyes stung at the sight, at the basket of embroidery, the unsent letters on the desk, the photographs on the mantel, of Matthew as a child, of Lily, of...

She had not seen that photograph of herself with Lily in the morning room playing on the floor when Lily was first sitting up on her own. "Very early," Isobel had said proudly. Mary held the photograph in her hands, the ache of missing Isobel swelling in her throat, remembering how much pride they had both taken in Lily's every accomplishment, remembering how the older woman had guided her in every step, how she now simply knew what to do.

"Thank you," Mary whispered to the empty room.

* * *

><p>The light was waning, the spring afternoon sunlight breaking through the steam of the train engine as she stepped off the train. She looked for Pratt, but could see no uniformed man, only a dark, oddly shaped figure at the other end of the platform, which turned and walked through the steam, revealing a pair of fair heads. Lily bounced in Matthew's arms, her little hands reaching toward Mary as he strode toward her. "There's Mama," he called.<p>

"Hello, my darlings," she whispered as she gathered Lily to her. "Did you miss me?"

"We missed Mama, didn't we?" Matthew replied. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," Mary said. "All sold." She looked up at Matthew and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

"Darling, what's wrong?" He brushed at her cheek with his fingertips.

"Nothing's wrong, that's what's so lovely," she said. "The last time we met on this platform... when..."

"Mary.." His arms went round her, his cheek pressing against hers. There was nothing he could say, the memory of that day in 1916 too much for both of them. Promises made, promises kept, and at the end of all of it was this. "And the other thing?" he whispered.

"September," she replied. "Officially, at least."

He grinned. "Lily," he said. "You're going to have a brother or sister. Mama's going to have a baby."

Lily babbled back, and at first Mary thought she was imagining things. "Lily?"

Her little voice was still rough from the 'flu, but it was perfectly clear what she was saying as she nestled against Mary.

"Ma-ma."

* * *

><p><em>She wonders at how it was all so different just seconds ago, the breathtaking pain, the sensation of being split in two, her body an alien creature, enormous and swollen, great screams raking her throat as it happens and it happens again and then... nothing. Her eyes close and she is welcomed into a velvet cloud as the last of it all leaves her. Words are spoken, happy words, but there is only one sound she can comprehend, and that beautiful noise washes through her like a balm as warm, damp, sweet-smelling cloths makes her forget the sweat and blood of moments before. Arms, familiar and warm, lift her from the bed, and she hears his voice over that new sound in her ear "brave, beautiful Mary, my love" and she manages to open her eyes and touch Matthew's cheek before he lowers her back onto snow-white pillows and covers her with a light blanket as that sound of fierce, angry cries fully pierces her,<em>

_And the arms that held her now hold a screaming child, and a new strength finds its way into her and she greedily reaches for the tiny bundle in Matthew's hands. "She's beautiful," he says._

She is beautiful_, Mary thinks to herself, _so like Lily_. She is surprised by the faint swirl of dark hair like hers upon the small head. She strokes her daughter's cheek, and the baby quiets, and just like her sister did before, she presses against her. "Hello, Annabel," she whispers._

_She can hear nothing other than the sound of this baby's breathing and her own heart thumping, and it takes several tries by Matthew before she raises her head._

_"Goldilocks and the three bears would like to see the baby," he says again and she nods and kisses him._

_She does not know how long she stares at the baby, memorizing every feature, every twitch as she sleeps, before a soft, raspy-sweet voice interrupts her._

_"It's about time," Lily remarks, and Mary regards her first child with no little amusement. "I've been asking for a sister."_

_She looks as smug as her great-grandmother does, the expression on her nine-year-old face the very image of Violet's as the two look down at the baby. It shocks Mary as it does every time they're together, and she has to remind herself that the two are not related in any way. Lily reaches out and her long fingers ghost across the top of her sister's head. "Is it Annabel?" she asks. "Annabel Violet?"_

_"Yes," Matthew says._

_"Boys," she says softly. "This is Annabel. Annabel, these are your brothers. Joseph, Robbie, and Archie."_

_And Goldilocks' three bears come forward to see what all the fuss is about, and Mary remembers each of them as babies in this room, how she had reached for Joseph and held him even before the doctor had cut the cord, how Robbie had been so late she'd begun to wonder if he was a baby at all, and how Archie had come so fast she'd barely had time to get upstairs._

_"I'm glad you're all right, Mamma," Joseph whispers, his dark head next to hers. Her boy, her first, the one who came out of all that agony as a fiercely angry baby, the very opposite of Lily. Yet he is now her sweetest, both clever and kind, and he kisses his baby sister's head gently._

_Robbie, two years behind his brother, plays with Annabel's fist and grins up at Mary. "She better play cricket," is all he says. He is so like her father, all greenish eyes and brown curls, and she finds herself tearing up sometimes at the sight of him._

_Archie is like no one except himself, too young to really understand what is going on other than there is another creature around to draw attention, and Mary has to kiss and hold him before he is content to pat his little sister._

_"Enough," Lily murmurs. "Back to bed."_

_She rules the nursery just as Mary did, but Mary wonders if it isn't something in her voice that gives her so much authority over three little boys. That voice never changed, the terrible illness that took her grandparents having left its mark, the violent cough and bleeding scarring her throat for life, leaving her voice in tatters, the sweet, husky tones making the already preternaturally wise child seem even older than her nine years._

_The boys trundle out, Joseph remembering his manners and offering his arm to his great-grandmother, who takes it with a smile so adoring, it makes Matthew choke up. Lily does not follow them, but hangs back and looks to Mary. "May I stay?" she asks._

_"Mamma needs her rest," Matthew begins, but Mary stops him._

_"Stay until I fall asleep," she whispers to Lily, and pats the bed, the smile on Lily's face bringing the same pure joy that it had from the first time she had smiled at Mary. She crawls up close and places a soft kiss on her sister's forehead before lying down next to Mary. _My daughters_, Mary thinks as she strokes Lily's hair and looks down at the bluest eyes she has ever known._

_Lily has known since Robbie's birth that Mary did not give birth to her, a heartbreaking moment from which Mary has never quite recovered. That her precious Lily might ever doubt her love... And yet somehow Lily came to her own understanding of it, after hearing the story of the day she was born, and it is a story she asks for time and time again, and she asks for it tonight, as the clock strikes one, and she curls up next to the only mother she has ever known._

_"Tell me again about when you saw me for the first time."_

_The golden head is close enough to kiss, and Mary lets her lips brush the top of her head. "You were crying, and I picked you up and told you 'shh.'"_

_"And I did."_

_"You did." Her fingers tangle in Lily's and the little girl smiles as her eyes close._

_"And what did you think when you saw me?"_

_"You were beautiful. Two people I loved had given you to me, and I wanted to give you the world."_

_"And you did." It is barely a mumble, and Mary smiles as she sees her two girls asleep next to each other, the likeness almost uncanny._

_"Darling," Matthew whispers. "Do you need anything?"_

_"No," she says softly._

_Because as she looks up at Matthew, and then back at Annabel in her arms, Lily next to her, and thinks of her three boys in the nursery, Mary, the Countess of Grantham knows this is all she needs._

_She can't imagine anything better._

**FIN**


End file.
